Two are company, three are none
by Rose de Sharon
Summary: A jealous FBI agent wants Neal out of the way. What will our favorite con man do? N/P bromance, no slash.
1. The green eyed monster

**Two are company, three are none**

by Rose de Sharon

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><p><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I don't own the White Collar TV show.

**Author's notes:**

- English isn't my native language, all grammar/spelling/syntax mistakes are mine.

- The title comes from an 1872 engraving by American landscape painter and printmaker Winslow Homer (1836–1910).

- Details about Italian painter Simone Martini (c. 1284–1344) come from Wikipedia.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: The green-eyed monster<strong>

"_Here __comes __the __pet,__"_ thought Special Agent Barnaby "Buck" Stone as he raised his grey eyes from the 515 form he had been faking to read for the past ten minutes. _"__Just __look __at __him __strutt__ing __about __like __he __owns __the __place.__He __sure __thinks __he__'__s __good, __that __smart-mouthed __piece __of __street __trash!__"_

The object of Special Agent Stone's inner wrath was a person who had just pushed open the glass door of the White-Collar Crime Unit office. It was a young man in his early thirties wearing a Sy Devore suit, which perfectly fit his tall and lean frame. Stone scrutinized the young man's handsome face, his dark hair crowded with a Fedora hat, his luminous blue eyes shining with intelligence and mischief. He was greeting the other agents with a million-dollar smile, making the women swoon on their chairs and the men chuckle lightly – apart from the sulking Special Agent hiding behind a form; the little thief should be in leg irons and serving his time at Rikers Island instead of polluting the New York FBI building by his mere presence. But no, the con-man has somehow managed to earn a Confidential Informant status, proposing insights about cases involving mortgage frauds, art theft, bond forgeries and so on in exchange of an early release from his four-year prison term and working under the close surveillance of Special Agent Peter Burke.

The deal had actually been concluded. Stone remembered having spat coffee back inside his mug after hearing that Burke had agreed to grant the scoundrel a chance to work for the FBI. Peter Burke, the most highly-regarded agent of the Bureau, no less! But in a few weeks, the silver-tongue had wormed his way into the other agents' hearts, making them all blind and deaf to the fact that he was a convicted felon. Those idiots had only their eyes on the crime-solving rate of the division, which had been growing steadily up since that insufferable addition had become Burke's partner.

Neal Caffrey. Notorious con man, talented painter, master forger and sophisticated criminal. Charming, gifted, sharp, well-read... Buck Stone detested him.

Because, if it hadn't been for Telltales Caffrey, Burke wouldn't have gotten an 85% crime-solving rate!

"Hi, Jones!" said the ex-convict as he gave the dark-skinned Special Agent a hearty high five. Clinton Jones answered with a smile, his jet-black eyes flashing in amusement like every time Caffrey would waltz in the office. Stone had snubbed Jones from day one because of his Navy SEAL past; according to the resentful agent, military men could only be dumb heads and therefore had nothing to do with the subtle world of white-collar crimes.

"Diana, I salute thee!" added Neal with a flourish of his Fedora before making it roll on its brim along his extended arm to make it land on his desk, making the Berrigan woman giggle like a schoolgirl at this display of antics. Stone felt his blood boiling inside his veins: why couldn't this stupid lesbian simply pack her bags and go back to D.C.?

Jones and Berrigan started talking to the earnest about their weekend and the fun they had with their respective girlfriends, while Caffrey bragged about having being allowed to go to the Metropolitan Museum and attend a conference on Medieval paintings, giving a detailed account of art history that sounded like absolute nonsense to Stone. The man had never thought much about art in itself; for him paintings, sculptures and the likes were only objects to be recovered and he would never understand the hidden meanings of artworks by pompous intellectuals. But Caffrey could actually comprehend this rubbish and, to add insult to injury, captivate an audience with the confidence of a university graduate while he had never finished high school. The nerve of that little...

"Morning, people," interrupted a deep voice that made all agents interrupt their activities to nod at the newcomer. It was Special Agent Peter Burke, head investigator and Caffrey's handler. Smart, hard-working and by-the-book man, Burke was never unjust or impatient towards his subordinates, granting him the aura of a natural-born leader.

Stone had dreamed of being the Unit's head investigator for years, since he considered having all the needed qualities for the job. But it hadn't happened after Reese Hughes, the Director, had chosen Burke, dooming Stone to remain behind a desk and "increase his work experience". That had been a bitter blow and Stone had considered the possibility of favoritism, but Peter Burke was untouchable: good reputation, hardened professional, loved by his goons. There wasn't a whisper of scandal about his career or on his personal life. Stone knew some agents were having extramarital affairs and bragged about it in the men's bathroom but it was well-known that Burke was crazy about his wife. The office's rumor mill was buzzing about he would be nominated Director after Old Fossil Reese would deign to retire; consequently Burke was the man to "court" if Stone wanted to reach his professional goals.

Stone had thought of a perfect plan: becoming Burke's favorite agent, the indispensable right-hand man, the Watson to Holmes. After Reese would be kicked out of the picture, Director Burke would heartily recommend Agent Stone for the position of head investigator. But alas, things weren't looking bright for the moment; the rare files thrown at Stone had been boring-to-tears frauds about paintings. He had never managed to solve one case and Reese was very short of calling him an incompetent in front of the whole squad. The Old Fossil had told him many times that he was too brusque with the victims (a bunch of whiners!), too negligent with the paperwork (he deserved a secretary!) and he needed to improve his teamwork skills (all his colleagues were idiots!). This criticism had short-circuited the agent's chances to be singled out and now, Stone had to endure the show of a smarty-pants con man being Burke's partner.

"Hi, Peter! Good weekend?" asked Neal.

"Fine, how about you? Nice time at the Met?"

"Oh, it was grand! Thank you for allowing me to attend Professor Sanvitale's conference; his lecture about Martini was fantastic and it gave me an idea about the Anderson case."

Special Agent Peter Burke smiled at those words, making Stone's stomach churn in disgust; every time Caffrey would have one of his out-of-the-box ideas, it would generally lead to the solving of a difficult fraud – making Burke look good at the eyes of the Old Fossil and the rest of the unit, but the agent never forgot to thank Caffrey for his input. For the life of him, Stone couldn't understand why in the world a FBI agent would ever bother to reform an acknowledged criminal; and Caffrey was a nobody, plain and simple. A good-for-nothing!

The bitterness made Stone harrumph loudly, and Burke turned his head towards the sulking agent.

"Is there a problem, Stone?" asked Peter, his voice neutral but his chocolate-brown eyes hardening slightly.

"Nope," grumbled the man behind his form.

The blatant rudeness made Peter frown, and Neal looked slightly alarmed; he knew Agent Stone didn't appreciate his presence within the FBI building along with some other persons – like Ruiz of the Organized Crime Unit, Rice from Missing Persons and Kidnapping and even Jacobson at the Archives – but so far, the man had contented himself with giving Neal the cold shoulder whenever they happened to meet in the office's coffee machines or in the corridors. Stone had never expressed his dissatisfaction out loud until today, making the ex-convict a bit uneasy as he was always worried about people complaining about him and prompting his quick return to prison.

"Er, Peter… Maybe we should continue this conversation in your office?"

"Stone, I am repeating my question: is there a problem?" asked Peter, ignoring Neal's attempt at peace offering.

"Why should I have a problem, since Caffrey has solved the case _**I**_ was working on?"

Neal unconsciously bit at his lower lip; it was true the Anderson case was Stone's and he may have trend on the other man's shoes without meaning it. But a quick glance around told him there was more than meet the eye: Jones had locked his dark eyes on the belligerent colleague like a sniper zooming his sight on a target, Diana looked like ready to butcher Stone on the spot and even Agent Price had stopped short on his tracks to stand behind Burke, acting like back-up on an upcoming gunfight.

"Well, that's not exactly what I've meant," said Neal to Stone, trying to defuse the situation. "What I was saying was, during the conference, I got an idea about your case that might be helpful and I wanted to talk about it with Peter before submitting it to you, because if this idea was irrelevant then it wouldn't have made much sense wasting your time telling you about it, and…"

Stone snickered nastily: "And how an idea about a cocktail would help me solving a case about a worthless daubed wood plank given to a retard?"

It was Neal's turn to frown; he was a man deeply in love with art and he resented hearing someone comparing an artwork to something as trivial as a painted piece of wood. The Anderson case was a delicate one: seventeen-year-old Jonathan Anderson was mentally deficient and heir apparent to a medieval painting which had belonged to his late parents. But Jack Anderson, Jonathan's uncle, had claimed ownership over the painting, as stated by an inscription written on the back of the panel. Besides, according to the uncle, the painting was just a nice copy dating from the nineteenth century. The analysis of surface pigments, made by an expert hired by Anderson, had indeed revealed they were modern. Peter had thought nothing more could have been done about it, even if his gut instinct had screamed the uncle couldn't be trusted. If Neal had found something odd about this case, more power to him.

"A cocktail?" asked Neal. "I was talking about the painter Simone Martini, who has lived in Sienna during the twelfth century!"

Stone's eyes went huge, making Diana smile behind her hand. Trust that blockhead to make such a goof!

"Simone who?" asked Peter.

"Simone Martini had contributed to the development of international gothic art. His major works were religious paintings on wooden panels, and he privileged the Sienese tradition of sinuous lines, courtly elegance and decorative arts inspired by the Byzantine, like gold backgrounds and almond-shaped eyes."

"And why are you telling us this?"

"Well, according to Professor Sanvitale, there is some contestation about artworks attributed to Martini; there is a probability that some of them have been indeed made by other artists (like Martini's brother-in-law, Lippo Memmi, who often worked with him). That's why experts are currently X-raying and doing carbon 14 tests on the paintings to make sure they're genuine. I know the Anderson wood panel has been analyzed and so far, it appears the uncle is right but I've been thinking… What if the original painting has been _**covered**_ with modern pigments?"

A sparkle of pride made Peter's eyes shine more brightly. Neal certainly had a knack in finding out-of-the-box ideas!

"Covered? You mean someone would deliberately put some recent paints on a twelfth-century artwork, to make it look like a fake?"

"Exactly! And it's not a bad con, when you think of it: you claim a painting is worthless, expert analysis based on surface pigments prove you're right, and you walk away with an artwork evaluated for $50 while it is worth at least $500,000, and even more on the black market if you play your cards right. We also know by checking his accounts that Jack Anderson has lost a lot of money after the latest Wall Street crash and he has a high-rolling lifestyle. That makes about five hundred thousand reasons why he wants this painting so much."

"That's rubbish!" yelled Stone, making a passerby clerk jump a feet up the air.

"Enough!" snapped Peter back.

"But wouldn't the new pigments deteriorate the original paintings?" asked Jones.

"Not if you know a good painting restorer, and they are some in New York who wouldn't mind earning a little extra cash on the sideline. Besides, the added pigments are relatively fresh so it wouldn't be too difficult to erase them without damaging the painting beneath," answered Neal.

"Said the master forger," growled Stone.

"_Alleged_ master forger," corrected Neal. "Anyway, what I was trying to say is, if a counter-expertise could be done on the panel – and this time, with insisting on analysis the pigments on a deeper scale – and find out the paints just above the wood surface are genuine, then we are in presence of a blatant fraud."

"Jack Anderson gets the painting, get it restored, sell it for a fortune and then he flies to a non-extradition country while his handicapped nephew is left with nothing," summarized Peter, his dark gaze getting ever somber.

"Yes, and the painting is Jonathan's only life insurance. Since he is mentally deficient with no-one to look after him, he won't last long in a low-grade institution. Maybe Uncle Jack would even arrange to have his nephew beaten to death or poisoned, so there could be no further contestations about him being the sole heir of the medieval painting."

"Okay, but the inscription on the back of the painting clearly stated: _"__To __my __son __Jack,__"_ and signed_ "__W. __Anderson_"!" objected Diana.

"Believe me, Diana, forging handwriting isn't difficult," said Neal with a smile. "Do you want me to imitate Peter's signature on your writing pad?"

"Ahem! I would rather _**not**_ find you imitating my signature!" grumbled Peter. "But it's a plausible theory, Neal. Now there is only the matter to prove it. I will ask for a counter-expertise at once, and this time it will be made by the FBI lab since I don't trust the expert hired by Anderson."

"But Sir, it's my case!" protested Stone.

"Good! Then you will deal with the procedure in having the painting examined by our guys, and tell Jack Anderson to ready himself for a long delay. I want this painting examined thoroughly, from the atoms of the wood panels to the composition of the paints, and report to me any abnormalities, you got that? We won't leave any pebble unturned – or, in this case, any pigment unexamined – until we are a hundred percent sure the artwork is genuine, and I don't care how many work hours we will have to do. I will have no slapdash job on this case!"

"Very well, Sir," mumbled Stone, sinking back on his office chair.

Peter glared at the subdued agent for an instant, and then he put his hand on Neal's shoulder and squeezed it gently.

"That's good thinking, Neal."

"Er, Peter… We don't know yet if my theory is worth something…"

"No, I think you're right. There's something fishy about Anderson and we both know it. A big-spender guy wouldn't waste time claiming a supposedly fake painting just out of love for his father, who had died more than twenty years ago. Anderson is nearing bankruptcy, he has debts and he's desperate; more the reason to steal a potential fortune from the hands of his 'retarded' nephew who hardly has a clue of what's going on. Thank goodness his parents have hired an honest attorney! Come, we'll discuss more about it around a coffee…"

Stone watched in quiet hate Burke leading Caffrey to his upstairs office, his hand still resting on the con man's shoulder. The little twerp was saying something that was muffled by the office's constant buzz of conversations and phones ringing, but whatever it was made Burke smile again and…

_Oh, __no!_

This time it was the "Proud Papa" grin, the one that made Stone hit the ceiling every time he saw it. Burke was actually smiling in pride at his young partner, a criminal!

How could Burke have any respect for the nonsense flooding from Caffrey's mouth? His theory about the medieval painting was a perfect illustration that nothing good could come from the ex-convict! Jack Anderson, trying to make a genuine painting look like a fake so he could have it and then sell it for millions, what kind of nonsense was that? Stone had a few drinks with the man and he considered him to be a decent sort. Even his disastrous financial situation, his string of high-priced girlfriends and his Ferrari "mysteriously" disappearing in Upper Manhattan haven't changed the Agent's opinion about Anderson. Alas, Burke had gone completely under Caffrey's spell, refusing to hear anything that would contradict his pet convict.

That wouldn't do; Caffrey had to disappear from the FBI bureau and the sooner the better. Stone would prove from A to Z that the pet had to be disposed off – in jail preferably, or at the bottom of the Hudson River if needed – and his bad influence would disappear as well. Stone would become Burke's **real** partner and then nothing will stand between him and promotion, not even Old Fossil Hughes.

His decision made, Stone grabbed a few forms and started to fill them to request for a counter-expertise of the Anderson painting. His writing was hardly readable and the paper was in constant danger to be torn apart from the ballpoint's harsh attack, but the agent couldn't possibly care less. Paperwork was a hassle and should be treated accordingly – it was a clerk's job, not his!

While furiously writing, Stone was unaware that a pair of blue eyes was watching him from the glass panel of an upstairs office.

TBC…


	2. The sapphire eyed conman

**Disclaimer:** same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- Wow! Thank you to all who have put this story on their Fav and Alert lists!

- The "spider-sense" is mentioned in the Spiderman comic books, edited by Marvel comics.

- Neal's quote is from English poet, literary critic and philosopher Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834).

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: The blue-eyed conman<strong>

Neal Caffrey was sitting on the chair facing Peter Burke's desk, absently tapping his fingers on his coffee mug with the caption **"****FBI****'****s ****best ****consultant****"** in bold blue letters on the white glazed ceramic. The mug had been a gift from the Harvard squad (namely, people working with Peter Burke) as a discreet _"__Thank __you__"_ present after a video tape falsely incriminating their boss had been mysteriously erased. Garrett Fowler, the OPR Agent who had launched an investigation on Peter, had to fly back to D.C. with only the arrest of a corrupted federal judge as a consolation prize. Neal had denied any involvement in the erasing of the video tape but everybody knew the ex-convict had been the mastermind behind it.

Peter Burke looked at his consultant; Neal was fifteen years his junior and, with his baby blues and handsome face, he could easily look even younger. But it was his usual attitude that usually fooled people about his age. Neal was cocky as Hell, showed unfading courage during undercover jobs and he was also incredibly resourceful, getting out of danger using his ingenuity or his encyclopedia-like knowledge about art, escapology, history and so on. But what was amazing about Neal was his good heart; he had often gotten involved in cons simply to restitute a painting, a house, a Bible to their legitimate owners and even once, he had investigated inside a private clinic on his own to help his landlady's granddaughter to get reinstated in an organ donor list. And let's not forget him almost getting killed when trying to run away with Kate, his unreliable girlfriend after Fowler had guaranteed them both a safe passage to freedom – a guarantee that had busted into flames along with the jet plane in which Kate had boarded in. Peter had often wished Neal would listen more to his brains rather than his feelings, but the young man was so endearing with his Peter Pan/Robin Hood personae that it was hard to remain angry with him for very long.

However, something was troubling Neal's azure gaze and Peter was decided to get the bottom of it. The FBI Agent was responsible for Neal's security and well-being, and he was resolute nothing or no one would stand between the ex-convict and his rehabilitation.

"Neal?"

"Hm?"

"What's the matter?"

The young man lifted his eyes from the caffeinated drink slowly cooling inside his mug, and then he lightly shrugged his shoulders.

"Nothing."

"Neal…"

"I meant nothing important. It's unworthy of your time, Peter."

"Can I be the judge of that?"

"Please don't say 'judge', it brings back bad memories!" chuckled Neal while taking a sip from his coffee.

A long-suffering sigh escaped from Peter's thin lips, a sure sign for the conman the teasing of his friend was on the right track. However, a question was nagging inside his mind and Neal decided to put the jokes on hold for a little while... a very little while.

"Look, Peter… If I did something wrong, like offending someone at the office or goofing with a file, you would tell me at once so I could rectify the situation, right?"

"Of course I would. The job we're doing is potentially dangerous so we need full cooperation between us to be able to function properly on the field. However, you are far too intelligent to mess with a case and you are a social person so the chances of you turning the White Collar Unit into a madhouse are very slim, even if you drive me crazy every ten minutes."

"It takes ten long minutes to make you become insane? Wow, I really need to sharpen my skills, I want to send you to the nuthouse within the time length of two minutes!" joked Neal while Peter had his usual semi-exasperated face on. "Anyway, I just wanted to know… Well, have you heard if I am really _tolerated_ at the Unit?"

Peter's eyebrows shot up to the roots of his chestnut-brown hair. It was true that when Neal had taken his first steps as the CI of the White Collar Crime Unit, Peter had feared some people would feel uncomfortable working with the conman; but in just over a few weeks, Neal had managed to worm his way into the other agents' hearts, especially Jones and Diana who couldn't praise enough his courage and cool intelligence, _"__worthy __of __a __full-__fledged __FBI __agent__"_ according to Jones. But most people simply trusted Peter's judgment unconditionally: their boss considered Neal was the man for the job and the rising crime-solving rate was the best proof of it.

Peter was about to ask what brought that question on, but the recent incident with Buck Stone quickly came to his mind and provided him with the answer. It was true no Agents resented Neal's presence in the office apart from one grumpy man who had steadfastly refused to interact with anyone. So he looked straight in the sapphire orbs of the ex-convict and said:

"Neal, you're part of this team and don't let an idiot like Stone make you think otherwise."

Neal turned his attention back to his coffee. Darn it, Peter was too intelligent for his own good; he could read him like a book while hundreds had been fooled through and through by the cons the young man had pulled for years. No wonder Peter had been the only one able to put him behind bars! But Neal felt embarrassed, like he had whined about a bullying coworker instead of shrugging the whole matter off and "cowboy up", to quote Peter.

"And you are not whining, either," added Burke, making a surprised Neal choke on his coffee. After a loud coughing and sputtering row, he managed to regain enough control of his voice to blurt out at his handler:

"Are you a medium or something? Because if you are, anything you have read inside my mind can't be held in a court of law and…"

"Neal, will you stop? I don't need a sixth sense to see the animosity Stone has against you."

"Well, that's a good thing, because you nearly made me believe in one of Mozzie's crazy conspiracy theories about federal agencies manipulating us via telepathy!"

"But, in order to ease this wild brain of yours, I can tell you this: Stone is an embittered, jealous man and he has been a thorn at Hughes' side for years. So don't take anything he tells you personally; he is spitting venom but he is unable to hurt you."

"Peter, I've been in prison for four years, bullies don't frighten me. It may not look like it but I can defend myself. It's the same thing with guns, you see? I hate them but it doesn't mean I don't know how to use them when needed. But I don't want my presence inside this building to become a problem. Since I have to wear this tracking anklet, you don't need me in your face 24/7 after all. I can be a work-at-home consultant, for example; we'll communicate via webcams and I'll send you my conclusions by e-mails and…"

"Neal, you are talking nonsense!" said Peter firmly. "Why in the world would I want to send you home? Leaving you alone in June's guest room would only spell trouble. Within two days your overactive brains would have created about a dozen cons and Mozzie would be too eager to help you concreting them. Besides, I knew what I was committing myself to when I accepted to get you out of prison on a work-release program, and I won't back off. Fowler hasn't managed to make me change my mind about you, especially not after we discovered his hidden agenda so Stone's meanness has a snowball's chance in Hell to make me think twice about our agreement."

The dark-haired young man gulped down the remains of his coffee to soothe his aching throat, still looking unconvinced. He had a lifelong experience with disreputable individuals; he knew the greatest bandits were not always in the streets and a little jealousy could go a long way. Neal would hate it if Peter ever got caught in the crossfire but he also knew his friend wasn't a man who could be discouraged easily; Fowler had tried to wrongly accuse Neal of a diamond heist, and after it had failed the OPR agent had launched an investigation on Burke to get him out of the way, all this for an amber-made music box the ex-convict was supposed to have stolen. Both times, Fowler's plans had been foiled thanks to Peter's intervention. Neal could trust the older man to watch his back – heck, Peter was the only person in his life he trusted – and that was a treasure, a _real_ treasure the young man would do anything to keep it safe, including exile.

"Why are you so concerned about Stone's opinion?"

"I'm not! It's just… Well, I can't help but have a bad feeling around him."

"Who's the medium, now?" asked Peter with an amused smile before taking a sip of coffee from his mug proclaiming he was the **"****World****'****s ****best ****husband****"**.

"Laugh all you want, but my conman-sense is as sharp as the Amazing Spiderman's and it had never failed me. Every time a deal felt strange, the back of my neck would start tingling so I'd just said _"__No __thanks__"_ and walked, just before my eventual accomplices would get caught by the police or worse, killed by revengeful competitors. Mozzie says it is part of our natural instinct that had survived through centuries of civilization, and in my case it has remained higher than my other fellow human beings."

"That's not unusual, Neal. Lots of people have this kind of premonition."

"Yes, but only one percent of them actually listen to this instinctual reaction to danger, and I do. That makes me the Amazing Conman!" countered the young man while flashing one of his million-dollar smile.

Peter gulped down the rest of his coffee to hide his laughter. Modesty wasn't at the top of the list of Neal's qualities!

"Well, Web-crawler in a Devore suit, you can tell your super-senses to calm down. Stone is no danger since he is not allowed to go on the field and he knows better than to mess with the paperwork out of retaliation for finding your presence offensive. He is under Hughes' radar and the only thing he should concentrate on is to improve his paperwork skills and learn to be civil towards his co-workers – and I mean all his co-workers," added Peter with a hint of steel in his voice, "otherwise he will be shown the door with only himself to blame for the situation."

"Maybe it would be wise if I'd avoid him as much as possible," mused Neal out loud. "Since he seems resolute in not liking me, it is useless trying to change his mind. It will only create tension inside the office and we don't need a poisonous atmosphere."

"Call the press! Our CI is growing up and finally earning some common sense!" joked Peter.

""_C__ommon __sense __in __an __uncommon __degree __is __what __the __world __calls __wisdom__"_. Do you know who said that?"

"It was Samuel Taylor Coleridge, I believe."

"Quite right! Aren't you happy to have such an uncommon and wise CI in your team, Agent Burke?"

"I would be happier if the said uncommon and _un_wise CI would go to his desk where he belongs and start working. You drive me crazy!" grumbled Peter.

"My, has it been ten minutes already?"

"Neal!"

The young man answered with a laugh, too happy to have teased his friend; jumping on his feet, he exited Burke's corner office and, with a last salute towards his handler, Neal dashed through the stairs leading to the "Pit", the open space where all the other agents worked at their desks, consulted files neatly organized in archive boxes and had a chat around the machines brewing a coffee that was – according to Neal's standards – barely drinkable. Peter watched as Neal smiled at a blushing female intern, greeted red-haired Price by clapping him on the shoulder and lowered himself on his office chair before typing in the earnest on his keyboard to fill up his final report about the theft of an ivory statuette that had been solved the day before.

An outside observer could see Agent Burke wearing his "Proud Papa" smile on his face once again.

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><p><em>(Later, in the evening)<em>

Stone's plan had reached maturity. It was a simple one and thus, it was infallible. Crooks always put up with complex plans in a useless effort to foil the police and it would always end with handcuffs and Miranda rights. But Stone was a FBI agent (not a miserable conman playing with the system) and, with his natural-born talents and law enforcement experience, it didn't take him long to figure out how to put unwanted Caffrey back to jail. A simple but effective plan would do the trick and, in less than a week, everyone would have forgotten about the little crook polluting the White Collar Crime Unit by his mere presence. Burke would be upset for a day or two, of course, but Stone would step up and offer his help until the Head Investigator would name him as his new partner… his _real_ partner.

The man's grey eyes looked around; it was late, almost 7:30 p.m. and most of the agents from the Harvard Squad had left to go home. Even Burke and Caffrey were gone, the former offering the latter a lift home; that had made the agent's teeth grind against one another at the thought of a respectable FBI Agent escorting a criminal to his premises, like a moronic taxi driver. But Stone had feigned to see nothing and, as far as he could tell, neither Burke nor Caffrey had noticed his discomfort.

The Pit was almost deserted; there was only Tom Parker and Stephen Jackson (debating nearby the coffee machines about whether making a fresh pot or to go down to the Starbuck around the corner for some real Columbian), Anthony Hall typing the final details of his PowerPoint presentation scheduled for tomorrow morning (his bloodshot eyes were staring at his computer screen) and Old Fossil Hughes was reading a file, upstairs in his glass-walled office and oblivious to anything else. Good, no one was paying attention to Stone. He would normally be offended by this attitude but this time, it was serving his goal.

Setting aside his abhorred paperwork, Stone got up on his feet and casually walked towards Jones' desk. Nobody noticed his movements and the man inwardly smiled at the thought he had become invisible to his so-called colleagues, but they soon would watch with their eyes opened wide Caffrey walking out of the White Collar Crime Unit in handcuffs, escorted by a squadron of US Marshalls. The little bastard thought too highly of himself; it was time someone put him down a few notches!

Stone reached Jones' desk and spotted an opened drawer, showing the usual mess expected to be found inside an office's piece of furniture: Post-It notes, paper clips, a pair of scissors, an eraser, some Stabilo Boss markers, boxes of staples… and dollar bills barely hidden beneath a blue notebook. Stone pushed away the writing item, swiftly grabbed the money and pocketed it in a single movement. It had taken only a few seconds and he had been completely silent while perpetrating the crime: Part One of his plan was a success. Stone's eyes shone madly when realizing he had picked up a hundred-dollar bill, a fifty and a twenty from Jones' drawer. One hundred and seventy dollar! That was enough to send Caffrey back to jail for an extra two-year sentence on top of the four years still hovering over his head.

Because Stone's plan was simple; Jones' missing money would suddenly be found in Caffrey's drawer tomorrow first thing in the morning. Jones would say those bills were in his desk the night before and it would take about three seconds to reach the unique, logical, unanimous conclusion available: the conman had relapsed. Stone would reach his goal and Caffrey… would be in gaol!

Chuckling lightly, the agent turned about to walk towards Neal's desk but a shining item set on Berrigan's workplace caught his attention. It was a watch with a gold wristband and Stone remembered hearing the woman saying it was a birthday present from her lover. Apparently, Berrigan had forgotten her watch when rushing home and she probably expected to find it at the same spot where she left it on tomorrow morning. After all, thieves were extremely rare inside FBI buildings, weren't they?

"_More __the __merrier, __you __stupid __lesbian!__" _thought Stone while grabbing the watch as well. His plan was coming along marvelously; both Jones and Berrigan would become "victims" of Caffrey's thievery! Oh, the faces the toy soldier and the lesbian would make after discovering their friend had stolen from them! Not only Caffrey would lose Burke's trust, but of all the Harvard Squad as well and no one would lift a finger to help him while being raped six ways to Sunday in the slammer.

Neal's desk was the closest one to the entrance door. Stone glanced around another time but nothing had changed: Parker and Jackson were still arguing over coffee, Hall was hypnotized by his PowerPoint slides and the Old Fossil hadn't moved an inch. So far, so good. He reached Caffrey's workplace and couldn't suppress a pang of jealousy at the sight of the conman's immaculate desk; everything was neat and clean, the only personalization being a small plaster bust of the Greek philosopher Socrates. Stone's workplace was a disaster area but Hughes had been deaf to the agent's pleas that he needed his own secretary. He was certain Burke would grant him one after becoming the Director!

Stone opened Neal's desk drawer and feigned to take a look, like he was searching for a paper clip or some staples. Socrates remained impassible as the agent dropped money and watch inside the metallic box. There, it was done! Part Two of the plan had worked marvelously. Now it was just a matter of having to wait until morning and watch all the fun.

The agent returned to his desk, just in time to see Parker and Jackson grabbing their jackets as they had finally come to an agreement involving the Starbuck coffee shop. Hall was turning off his computer with a heavy sigh of relief. The Old Fossil was scratching something on a piece of paper, frowning in a severe manner. Once again, no one had noticed Stone's movements and the man had a bitter smile: the days of him being overlooked would be soon over. He would be Burke's partner or nothing!

TBC…


	3. The Tiger eyed agent

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- Hi! Sorry for the delay. I have hurt my back ('lower back strain', to quote the rheumatologist) so seating, walking and getting up had been very painful but it is getting better.

- I hope everybody had a Happy Halloween!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3: The brown-eyed agent<strong>

It was a happy – giddy – Agent Buck Stone walking towards the FBI building early in the morning. The sun was shining and the sky was free of any clouds, but the beautiful weather wasn't the cause of his good mood. Usually, come rain or shine, Stone would drag his feet until he would be almost late for work, and then he would spend about half an hour complaining about his co-workers, the subway or his wife who were naturally the cause of his lateness. But not today, because it was THE big day, the one when Little Twerp Caffrey would leave the White Collar Crime Unit in handcuffs, escorted back to jail under the eternal wrath of Burke. Stone had a hard time not laughing out loud in the streets like a madman while imagining the look on Caffrey's face after Berrigan's watch and Jones' cash would be found in his desk's drawer. That smart-aleck thief, always thinking he's better than everyone else… Well, his little ass would certainly be appreciated by the inmates of Rikers Island. Those monsters would take turns until the conman would beg to be put out of his misery!

Stone snickered again, and then he plunged his hand in his jacket's pocket to check if his Smartphone was still here. Last evening, he had made sure the battery was full because he certainly didn't want to miss the opportunity of taking pictures for this memorable day: Caffrey protesting that he hadn't done anything, getting his delicate wrists hurt by the sharp metal of the handcuffs, pleading in vain for people to believe in his innocence… Stone had already decided to make a special scrapbook with these photos, the very first step of his partnership with Burke. Why, they would become legends among the FBI; _"__Burke __and __Buck, __the __undefeatable __duo__"_!

Stone reached the building, crossed the entrance hall without saluting the security guards (as usual) and then he jumped inside an elevator's cabin (almost knocking over a female agent, who protested quite sharply). Stone mumbled an almost-apology and then he fixed liked a madman the shining buttons of the control panel. The cabin couldn't go fast enough for his sake to reach the 19th floor and for a brief, panicky moment Stone thought that, in a horrible twist of Murphy's law, the elevator would suddenly get stuck between two floors and thus depriving him from watching the success of his marvelous plan.

But after a few seconds, his heart quieted down; the elevator reached the 19th floor with a soft _'__ding__'_ and Stone jumped out of the contraption to push wide open the glass door of the White Collar Unit. A quick look around confirmed him the show hadn't started without him. Old Fossil Hughes was talking with Barbara, his secretary, agents were already shuffling paperwork or firing up computers and DeBellis had been put in charge to make fresh pots of coffee. Burke was already behind the glass walls of his office and Usurper Caffrey's desk was empty, meaning the crook hadn't managed to get a lift in the Agent's Ford Taurus to go to work this time.

Stone sat heavily on his office chair and had a nasty smile; Caffrey should have enjoyed his previous rides in Burke's comfy car, because the only vehicle he would see in a near future would be a prison bus…

A clear laugh interrupted the agent's train of thoughts; surprised, Stone lifted his eyes and he saw Berrigan talking animatedly with Price and Jones with a huge smile on her face.

"You should see this flat, guys; it's unbelievable! Three bedrooms, a huge terrace you can plant a garden on it, a living room so large you can put a home movie without disturbing the neighbors and a Jacuzzi in the bathroom. And the price is reasonable, too! Christie is absolutely mad about this place, she has already decided one room could become a shared office and the second one will be a guest room," said the young woman.

"Hmm, it sounds too good to be true," said Jones with a skeptic look on his face. "Are you sure the building isn't infested with rats or cockroaches, or other cute creatures of the same kind?"

"C'mon, guys, I'm an FBI Agent (Stone snorted discreetly) and the landlord wouldn't be idiotic enough to bring over his head a full investigation from the Bureau, if his building wasn't vermin-free."

"I don't want to rain on your parade, Berrigan," interrupted Price, "but Sanger had brought a house two years ago and he has no end of problems with it; and yet, he had told beforehand the owner that he worked for the Bureau…"

"Are you trying to discourage me, guys?" asked Berrigan with a frown on her face.

"Perish the thought," said Jones and Price in a same voice. Everybody knew better that the lesbian could be quite dangerous when somebody stood on her way. Of course, having a diplomat Dad could iron out lots of troubles. Insufferable rich bitch…

Suddenly, Stone's grey eyes went wide in surprise; something bright and yellow was shining around Berrigan's left wrist and it was….

_Her watch!_

The shock made him knock over a box filled with paper clips which fell with a metallic clank on the floor. The three agents turned about at the sound and they looked in quiet puzzlement at Stone, who had his gaze fixed like glue on Berrigan's arm.

"Something's wrong, Stone?" asked the young woman politely.

The Agent was too stunned to answer. What in the world had happened? He had dropped the lesbian's watch in Caffrey's desk drawer just the evening before but somehow the jewelry had been placed back to its usual place, attached to the wrist of the legitimate owner!

"What's up, man?" asked Jones, a bit more firmly.

Stone would have normally resented the toy soldier's question – couldn't have that idiot mind his own business – but after the effect of surprise had passed, his FBI training kicked in full gear and suggested him to keep his head during unexpected situations. The gold watch may be back on Berrigan's arm but it wasn't the time to ask how that conjuring trick could have happened. Acting spooked was the best way to attract attention and Stone had to keep a low profile for his plan to come to fruition. After all, Burke was still in his office so all wasn't lost. Stone had another ace up his sleeve, namely the money he had stolen from Jones; Caffrey could still go down for his $170 "relapse".

"Hunh… Nothing… Just dropped box of… paper clips… Sorry, guys," mumbled Stone while bending over to pick up the items scattered on the plastic tiles. He missed the surprised looks on Diana, Jones and Price's faces after hearing his words. Sullen Stone had actually uttered the word _'__Sorry__'_? Call the press!

But the three agents didn't have time to go into details about that unusual behavior. Judging by the aroma escaping from the coffee pots, DeBellis had succeeded in brewing a liquid strong enough to wake up the dead, and yet with needed digestive qualities to prevent stomachs to be pierced during ingestion. Antonio "Tony" DeBellis had always pretended he had inherited this talent from his Italian grandfather who had migrated to the States right after WWII.

"Muffins for everybody!" announced a clear voice, and all heads turned about to see a beaming Caffrey holding two large rectangular boxes proclaiming _"__The __best __cakes __of __NYC__"_. All people knew the conman had bought a bakery and then used its awning to land on it after taking a swan dive from a Judge's Chambers window (long story, involving trumped-up charges courtesy of Agent Fowler). But, apart from its convenient awning, that bakery did have the best reputation in town and proud owner Caffrey never failed to provide the Bureau with mouth-watering pastries.

"Oh Neal! You're a godsend!" said Jones.

"That what I keep telling Peter, but for some reason he doesn't want to believe me!"

"Smart-mouth," answered Burke, who had gotten out of his office and walked down the stairs to see what his favorite troublemaker was up to. His ruggedly-handsome features brightened at the sight of the CI disposing the two boxes filled with muffins on the kitchen corner's round tables. Peter was always glad to see Neal making efforts to blend in among FBI Agents and trying to be more than a lucky conman. And there were all kind of pastries, too: banana, vanilla, caramel, dark chocolate, white chocolate, lemon, strawberry, peach, raisins, cinnamon and even blueberry ones. The dream of any sweet tooth!

"Wow! Thanks, Neal," exclaimed DeBellis. "That will do well with the coffee!"

"Help yourself, guys, there's for everybody! Except for you, Peter, of course…" said Caffrey with a teasing smile.

"Why not me?" asked Burke, genuinely shocked.

"Because you're banned from the muffins; I've overheard El saying you should go on a diet so, as your partner, I consider it my duty to keep you out for those edible ecstasies, especially the strawberry ones you are overly found of…" said the conman with the most angelic look on his face.

"Try to keep me from the strawberries, Neal, and I'll triple-handcuff you to your desk!"

"I've been threatened! Call the United Nations Human Rights Council!" exclaimed the ex-convict in mock horror, making the whole Harvard Squad laugh out loud – apart from Stone, still kneeling on the floor picking up the scattered paper clips, and Hughes who had also came down from the upper level to see what the ruckus was all about.

"What's going on here, Caffrey?" asked a puzzled Director.

"W-e-l-l, I am currently busy corrupting your agents with eatable goods made of flour, sugar, eggs, butter, oil, fruits and baking powder, and while they are stuffing their stomachs with irresistible sweet treats I am going to rummage through the Bureau's neatly-ordered files and pick up information about missing valuables…"

"Neal," said Peter, frowning lightly as a warning. It was one thing to joke with the agents but Hughes wasn't noted for his sense of humor.

"Caffrey, the day you will succeed in distracting us from our duty with muffins will be the day I'll be a candidate for the loony bin! Okay, everybody, back to work!" barked the Director, just before grabbing two muffins (orange-flavored for Barbara, cinnamon for him) and climbing up the stairs. All the agents went back to their respective desks but none of them forgot to pick up a pasty and their mug filled with DeBellis' fresh coffee.

Neal presented two strawberry muffins wrapped in a napkin to Peter, who smiled gently in return. Burke was nearing forty-five years old but, in spite of Neal's earlier joking comments, he was well-built and muscular thanks to regular gym sessions and basketball games, so he could indulge muffins every once in a while. Then the two men walked towards Neal's desk, as Burke wanted to talk about a new case involving a prized collection of old coins, but at the same moment Stone got up on his feet, his trousers' knees covered with dust and looking positively furious.

The little twerp had managed to make himself the star of the Bureau once again, with a free distribution of muffins! That was the last straw! It was high time to talk to Burke about a certain missing amount of money and….

But at the same moment, Jones opened his desk's drawer and calmly got out dollar bills before neatly folding them between his long fingers, making Diana ask:

"Hey Jones, what are you doing with all this dough?"

"Oh, I left it here last night because it is Florence's birthday today and I want to buy her something nice as soon as I can get home tonight…"

Stone turned ghastly pale; those dollars were the same one he had placed in Caffrey's desk drawer the night before. But, just like Berrigan's watch, they had returned to their original place. The whole situation was turning hocus-pocus and, for a moment, he felt his heart turn over inside his chest like a kid frightened by a fire camp story.

"You left bills in your desk's drawer? But you have about $200 in here…"

"$170, actually," corrected Jones.

"That's not very wise, somebody could have taken it anytime…" scolded the dark-skinned woman.

"Oh come on, Diana, thieves are uncommon inside FBI buildings!" scoffed Jones before tucking the money inside his wallet. "I could leave cash here and find it at the same place the next day without a worry. This place is like Fort Knox!"

"Well, I suppose I shouldn't blame you," said Diana, munching eagerly on a peach-flavored muffin. "Last evening, I completely forgot my watch and I remembered only at breakfast that I have left it on my desk. Let me tell you, I was quite relieved to recover it this morning when I arrived. But for the life of me, I can't understand what had made me leave it here!"

Stone felt like he was going to have an apoplexy attack; Berrigan had her watch back, Jones his cash, his whole plan was ruined! And there was only one answer to what had happened: Caffrey had somehow came very early this morning, found the stolen items in his drawer, and put them back in place without anybody being the wiser. The pet had managed to get the upper hand on him; Stone's castle in the air had fallen down and it had buried him beneath the ruins. Rage made the agent see red and, unable to refrain himself, he said in a scathing tone: "Oh, thieves are NOT uncommon inside FBI buildings!"

Peter, who had been talking quietly to a seated Neal, slowly turned about after hearing the venomous comment. His brown gaze locked upon the sullen agent and he said:

"Agent Stone, it is of common knowledge that you resent Caffrey's presence at the White Collar Unit, but could you please show a tiny bit of professionalism and keep your foul comments to yourself?"

Neal suddenly looked uncomfortable; he remembered yesterday's conversation, about how he had vowed to avoid confrontations with Stone but he didn't want Peter to speak on his behalf, either. He moved slightly on his chair, as if he was getting ready to make another one of his trademark smart-aleck comments to defuse the situation but Peter's firm hand on his shoulder silenced him more efficiently than Miranda rights.

"These are not foul comments, Agent Burke, just a statement of fact," said Stone. A little voice was screaming inside his mind to shut up but he was too furious by the ruination of his plan to pay it any attention. "Maybe it would be wise to have security cameras inside the unit's office in addition of those already settled in the hallways and the elevator, just in case…"

"What are you implying, Stone?" growled Peter. "We should monitor every single move of our people? Or are you suggesting Neal would steal valuables from his co-workers?"

"Why not?" grumbled the agent between gritted teeth. Scandalized, Peter was about to say something but Neal interjected suddenly:

"Setting up surveillance cameras in the office? That's a capital idea! Peter, can I put on a request to have a camera located right here?" asked the enthusiastic young man while pointing his finger at the top of the notice board located on the wall next to his desk. It was covered with "Wanted" posters, office memorandums, ads and various photographs of suspects and it was a running joke that the board was fixed on the wall not by screws, but by the multiple pins covering the papers.

"Up there? Why would you want a surveillance camera fixed above the notice board?" asked Peter.

"Because it would film my left side and, as you are well aware of, it is my best profile, so…"

Peter remained stunned for a second and then, after looking at his partner's laughing blue eyes, realized he had been played along and started to vigorously ruffle Neal's dark mane, making the ex-convict complain loudly about police brutality during office hours and the ultimate crime of messing up his carefully-groomed hair. Jones and Diana had a hard time not to choke on their muffins from laughing out loud from Caffrey's antics but then, Peter stopped his big brother-like attitude to shot daggers at Stone.

"Agent Stone, I think I have already told you to get on with the Anderson case. I expect a full report at the end of the day so instead of wasting your time making snide comments about Caffrey, you'd better start working on the double because right now, you are not presenting an image of efficiency, do you hear me?"

Stone clenched his jaw so hard his teeth nearly broke from under the pressure; Burke had criticized him in front of the little rat again! He opened his mouth to protest but one look at Peter quickly made him change his mind; mild-mannered as he was, Burke knew to command and nobody in his/her right state of mind could boast about rebelling against his orders. Recently, Agent Rice had disregarded Caffrey's safety during an undercover operation and she was currently learning the hard way that endangering the pet was an absolute guarantee to watch a career being flushed down the toilet bowl. But Peter wasn't formidable only because of his devotion to keep Caffrey safe. His perfect equilibrium and tranquil authority had made him won a Meritorious Service Recognition plaque in addition of an 18-year of Exceptional Service Award, and those things weren't bestowed to fools who couldn't handle a troublesome colleague.

Stone was getting skirmish under Peter's brown orbs. Elizabeth had often said her husband's eyes were like aphrodisiac chocolate that made her melt all over – a declaration would inevitably end up by a romp between the sheets for the Burke couple – but, in time of trouble, Peter dark gaze could become as hard as Tiger's Eyes gemstones, unforgiving and unrelenting and those eyes were presently set right at Stone. The resentful man knew he had been temporarily beaten. The simple plan to disgrace Caffrey was in ruins, the "proofs" were gone and the mystery of the moving objects hadn't been solved; thus, and as hard as it was to admit it, today wouldn't be the day when the Rat Pack-wannabe would be send back to maximum security. So it could only mean one thing for the moment: low profile, paperwork and thinking about a new plan.

"Yes, Sir. At once, Sir," mumbled Stone before turning towards his messy desk with his tail between his legs. Peter watched the retreating agent without blinking an eyelid until a soft cough from Neal made him snap out of his trance.

"Ahem! Should we focus on the crime at hand, namely the missing old coins business you were talking about, Peter?" asked Neal while quickly combing his hair back in place with his fingers.

"As soon as you are finished with your grooming, Neal," said Burke good-naturally, his eyes getting back to their usual warm-chocolate color.

"Peter, you should know that appearances are everything! Like, for example…"

Stone grabbed his dirty mug and walked to the coffee machines, resolute to have a decent drink and grab all of Caffrey's muffins in the same gesture, leaving none for his co-workers. He was certain some of them had watched gleefully him being told off by Burke so it would be only justice that they should go without sweet treats for the rest of the morning.

But a bad surprise greeted Stone at the kitchen's corner: the two boxes containing _"__The __best __cakes __of __NYC__" _have been completely emptied and left discarded on the coffee tables, leaving only a few crumbs for him…

TBC…


	4. The obsidian eyed soldier

**Disclaimer:**same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- Horace Pippin (1888–1946) was an African-American painter, whose WWI illustrated journal is kept at the Smithsonian Institute. The sketch mentioned is of my own creation.

- Jean de la Fontaine (1621-1695) is one of France's most famous poets and fabulists.

- The characters' knowledge of French comes from my imagination.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4: The obsidian-eyed soldier<strong>

_(Thursday afternoon)_

A week had passed since Stone's unsuccessful attempt to get Neal out of the way, and the agent had remained in the foulest temper ever. At the office, he had managed to hide his anger under a mask of impassibility (or so he thought), keeping his conversations with his annoying co-workers to the minimum and working without complains on the Anderson paperwork, trying not to let nothing of his disappointment show on his behavior. He had even avoided looking at Caffrey, out of fear the mere sight of the little thief would made Stone accidentally blown a fuse. But at home, he had been in such an execrable mood that Linda was seriously considering filing for divorce and taking the kids away from him. Not that Stone would have minded; his wife was a fool who had birthed a couple of little idiots unworthy of his time so watching them hitting the road would be a relief. There would be the matter of alimony and all that stuff, but his career was more important than anything. Who cared about visiting rights after he had become Burke's partner? The judge would be so impressed by Stone's professional accomplishments that he would grant a pittance at Linda, tell her to get a job like everybody else and stop bothering such a great FBI agent as her ex-husband with her ridiculous claims.

Stone let out a sigh of relief after the last form concerning the Anderson case had been laboriously filed up. Following Burke's orders, a new examination of the medieval painting had been done and the results were to be announced anytime soon. Stone had tried to make these scientific lazybones moving quicker by yelling at them on the phone but Guy Thompson – the Head expert in paintings – had told him in no uncertain terms to leave his guys alone, otherwise he would report to Hughes and that wouldn't have served Stone's plans at all.

Today was Thursday, and while some people were already considering how to spend the weekend, the office was also buzzing from the upcoming arrival of a bigwig for the next day. Hughes and Burke had been working hard all week to prepare for a meeting with Phyllis Baker, the Director of the White Collar Crime Unit in D.C. who wanted their opinion about a sketch done by Horace Pippin while in France during World War I; this sketch was currently held in the Archives of American Art of the Smithsonian Institute but there was a doubt about its authenticity. Alas, the drawing's paper was too frail to be taken out of the museum so a way to prove its genuineness had to be found by working only from photocopies of the sketch.

Caffrey had to show his nose in, as usual; on Tuesday, he had climbed up the stairs four steps at a time to submit his idea to Burke…

* * *

><p><em>(Tuesday morning)<em>

"It's easy, Peter. Look, Horace Pippin fought in the Somme during World War I and he sketched the town of Château-Thierry just before the German offensive of March 27, 1918. I have found some photographs of this town in the archives; generally they come from old black-and-white postcards taken during the "Belle Epoque". See?" said the young man while displaying a huge collection of postcard replicas out of a file to place them on Peter's desk.

"Okay, and what does it prove?"

"Look, this is a postcard taken in 1913 of square Jean de la Fontaine, named after the French poet who was born in Château-Thierry in 1621; right in the middle of the square is a statue of de la Fontaine. He's the local celebrity so during WWI the population refused to have the sculpture removed to protect it from damages or to avoid having it stolen by the Germans. And, on Horace Pippin's sketch, the statue of Jean de la Fontaine appears."

"Where?"

"Right here," said the young man, pointing his finger on a figure half-hidden by a tree, and yet it was possible to see it was the silhouette of a man with long curly hair standing on a pedestal, wearing a cloak over short-sleeved pants in the style of the 17th century. Peter also noticed at the feet of the pedestal a bush cut into a long-eared animal standing next to a round one.

"What are these?" asked the FBI agent, pointing at the strange shapes.

"They are the heroes of one of de la Fontaine's most famous stories, _"__The __hare __and __the __turtle__"_. The turtle bets she will arrive first at a race and the hare mocks her, as she is notoriously slow. So he loafs around all day, and then the turtle is reaching the finishing line. The hare runs like crazy, but to no avail: his opponent has won. The morale is that success depends on endurance and not overconfidence."

Peter lifted amused eyes towards his consultant.

"You've read de la Fontaine's stories, haven't you?"

"Well, yes…"

"And in French in the text?"

Neal looked down a bit embarrassed, but he nodded his head affirmatively. Peter's "Proud Papa" grin lit his face again. Damn it, this kid was good; so unbelievably good!

"That's great, Neal. The fact that Pippin had sketched the de la Fontaine statue is what we need to prove the drawing is genuine. We should contact the mayor of Château-Thierry to ask him for a copy of the town's archives – photographs of the statue, written testimonies during WWI, if possible a copy of the contract made between Château-Thierry and the sculptor who made the artwork. What was his name?"

"Laitié," answered Neal immediately. "He made it in 1824 and it has been restored two years ago, so there's a good chance the archives have been reopened for the occasion."

"Good. Could you please ask Jones to call France and speak to the mayor of Château-Thierry about the statue? Maybe he'll have some information about Horace Pippin's presence in his town in March 1918."

"Peter!" exclaimed Neal, looking surprised. "I speak French, I can do the job!"

"I know you can but you are a C.I., not an FBI Agent allowed to contact foreign authorities about a case involving a priceless drawing," said Peter firmly. "Director Baker will come here at the end of the week to ask us for our expertise and I don't want anyone to contest our conclusions during the Friday meeting."

"But how my interview with the French mayor would interfere with…" started to say Neal, and then realization made his blue eyes shine a bit brighter.

"Oh, let me guess. Baker isn't one of my fans, is she?"

Peter sighed, and then he leaned against his office chair's back, his usual position when dealing with a problem concerning his favorite conman.

"Neal…"

"Look Peter, it's okay. I'll get out of your hair and…"

"Will you kindly let me finish?" growled the older man. If there was one thing Peter hated, it was being interrupted. "Baker is all right, she's not a Kim Rice-lookalike who would do anything to have her picture in the papers. No, Baker's a straight arrow; she may have some reserves about you working with the White Collar Unit but she won't let it cloud her judgment if we present her with the irrefutable proof that the Horace Pippin drawing is genuine. But Baker won't come alone, there will also be her head investigator tagging along; his name is Richard Moore and he's the one who isn't a fan of you. In fact, after Fowler arrested you for the pink diamond heist, Moore sent him a message of congratulations… something he is kicking himself about now."

"Because you have proven my innocence and everybody knows now that Fowler was dirty," completed Neal. "So, in order to save face, Moore will sift through everything you and Hughes will present on Friday about the Horace Pippin's sketch, and the mere mention of me interfering in this file even in the littlest way will give him ammunition to express doubts about the thoroughness of your investigation."

"Exactly."

"Politics," said the young man in disgust. "Sometimes, I could actually understand Mozzie's philosophy about government agencies making us dance like marionettes on strings if I didn't know this kind of things goes back from the Roman Empire."

"Ask Jones to call France, will you?"

"Okay, Peter, _morituri __te __salutant_," said Neal with a grimace and a flourish of his postcard-saturated file, making Peter rolling his eyes towards the ceiling but he knew this theatrical exit was only a facade. His partner was too intelligent to be offended by being asked to remain in the shadows concerning the Horace Pippin drawing. After all, Neal liked to work with Burke and his Harvard Squad and he knew that for this situation to continue, he had to make himself invisible at times to make Peter's life easier – he had learned his lesson well with Fowler. After all, he was the auto-proclaimed world's best conman and lurking in the shadows had become a second nature to him.

Whistling softly, Neal approached Jones' desk and tapped gently on the man's strong shoulder.

"Hey, Jones."

"What's up, my man?" asked the dark-skinned agent, and the young man couldn't help but smile. Jones was a good man and he had accepted Neal's world without batting an eyelid, including his strange friendship with Mozzie, his expensive wardrobe and extravagant guest room at June's. Many people would resent Neal for his outstanding living accommodations but Jones didn't give a damn about that. All what mattered to him was doing the job right and he trusted Peter for giving Caffrey the opportunity to help them solve cases.

"_Il __paraît __que __tu __parles __français, __mon __ami?_ (It is said you speak French, my friend?)," asked Neal, making Jones' white teeth flash in amusement.

"_En __effet, __j__'__ai __suivi __des __cours __de __français __à __l__'__université __avant __de __m__'__engager __chez __les __SEALs !_ (That's right, I followed French courses at the university before joining the SEALs!)," answered Jones.

"_Très __bien, __tu __es __donc __l__'__homme __de __la __situation __pour__…_ (Very well, you are the perfect man for the job…)," but Neal's fluency in French was abruptly cut off by Stone's voice, who barked:

"Cut off that lingo!"

Jones turned his obsidian-colored eyes towards the grumpy agent, his calm features betraying nothing. He was quite aware Stone thought nothing but trash about his SEAL past and, in a normal situation, Jones would have given the man a piece of his mind until nothing was left apart from a few bloodied remains. However, this kind of behavior was against FBI's policies and besides, Burke had told him to ignore Stone's contempt towards his military records. Jones, a soldier to the core, had obeyed his immediate superior's orders and he was resolute in not letting the pompous airbag of the office to get at him with his hostility. Neal, however, hadn't had military training and he wasn't the kind to let blatant contempt towards culture go unnoticed.

"This isn't 'lingo', this is French!"

"Whatever," growled Stone.

"What, you have something against foreign languages, too?" asked Neal with an exasperated sigh. He had promised Peter to avoid a confrontation with Stone but the man made everything all grist to his mill and it was getting tedious. However, a discreet touch of Jones' fingertips on his wrist made the young man renounce to pursue an unwanted conversation with a hostile party. More urgent matters required their full attention and no time could be wasted arguing with an idiot. Good ol' Jones, steady as a rock!

"Well, _mon __ami __cultivé_ (my cultured friend), Peter wants you to call France about the case involving a Horace Pippin sketch. He'd like you to contact the mayor of Château-Thierry and ask about any record of this artist's presence in this town on March 1918 – to be precise, just before a German offensive which happened in the 27th. You could even ask for the testimony of a _"__poilu__"_, provided there is still one alive around Château-Thierry…"

"A what?" asked Jones.

""_Poilu__"_ is French for "hairy", which was the nickname given to French WWI soldiers. There are very few left and they are over than a hundred years old, but it's worth a try to see if someone remembers seeing an African-American soldier sketching Château-Thierry between two bombings. Anyway, here's the file about Horace Pippin and his drawing so it's time to put your French to good use. There is about a seven-hour difference between France and the United States so it'll give you the time to get accustomed with the case."

"You got it," said the agent, eager to work on a case where his talents in foreign languages would be helpful. Neal smiled once again at the ex-soldier and turned about to reach his own desk but Stone let out a spiteful comment, loud enough to be heard by the former convict:

"Show-off…"

Neal sighed and then he answered, without bothering to turn his head towards Stone:

"Whatever."

Stone's mouth twisted in disgust just before returning to his mess of paperwork, unaware that Jones' gaze was fixed on him. He affixed his signature at the bottom of a page, but he was holding his pen too tightly and the movement ripped the paper. The agent cursed loudly as the ballpoint broke in two in the palm of his hand, leaking ink all over the ruined form and on his desk as well. His long string of complains was cut short, however, when Peter's voice rang across the Pit:

"Stone! Have you finished with the paperwork about the Anderson case?"

Neal lifted his eyes to see his friend leaning against the platform's rail, looking sternly at the sullen agent. Apparently, Peter wasn't happy for Stone's lateness and the fact that the pigment analysis' results haven't been sent to the Unit yet.

Stone grabbed a handful of paper handkerchiefs out of a box on Diana's desk – without asking for the woman's permission first – to wipe his palm clean from the ballpoint's ink, and then he had replied:

"No Sir, not my fault, Sir, had an accident with my pen, Sir."

Peter let out a sigh, and the people working down the Pit could all see their head investigator was getting fed up. The man liked intelligence in every way so he didn't suffered fools easily – and Stone was digging up his own grave with his less-than-professional attitude and barely-contained anger. Some agents had even been joking since the beginning of the week about him being late one time too many and how it had made him missed Caffrey's delicious muffins, but others were quietly talking about Stone being shown the door one day or another if he didn't mind his attitude.

"I want that report on my desk on Thursday, Stone, do you hear me?"

"Yessir," grumbled the man and Neal made it a point to concentrate on his computer screen. Peter had probably witnessed Stone's contempt towards him but the young man refused to add more fuel to an already "warmed-up" atmosphere. The best way to defuse a heated situation was to play super cool so he calmly typed on his keyboards and started searching information about the artist Laitié, the sculptor of the Jean de la Fontaine's statue. It might be helpful for Jones and thus, for Peter in regards of the Friday meeting with Director Phyllis Baker.

Peter glared one last time at Stone, looked at Neal with concern, and then went back to his glass-walled office.

* * *

><p><em>(Thursday evening)<em>

It was late again when Stone finally put the final mark on the dreaded Anderson case' paperwork. The lab's results had arrived two hours ago and it had corroborated Caffrey's theory: the surface paints' pigments were recent and were actually covering more ancient ones, proving that the painting had indeed been falsified in order to make it look worthless. Hearing that, Burke had immediately requested for an interrogation of Jerome Long, the expert hired by Jack Anderson who had assured the medieval painting was nothing but a copy – no doubts the man had been paid by Anderson to make a false statement, provided getting a taste of the profit. Diana and Jones had immediately volunteered to question Long, and Caffrey had laughed about he would almost pity the suspect: being interrogated by Super-Soldier Jones and Die-Hard Diana would quite an experience!

Stone got up on his feet and looked about; like last time, the office was deserted – even Old Fossil Hughes had called it a day to return to his tasteless hovel. There was no one around except for the cleaning guy (a Hispanic man in a blue jumpsuit with the name _"__José__"_ embroidered on the front) who was waxing the floors while listening to music coming from his MP3 earplugs. Burke and Caffrey had gone home as well, all was quiet and calm. Good!

Grabbing his Anderson file, Stone climbed up the stairs with the intention to deposit it on Burke's desk as ordered. But the agent had a hidden agenda as well: during the week, he had come up with another plan to get rid of Caffrey but also to teach Peter a lesson!

Because Burke – as much as Stone admired and needed him – had been too harsh on him during the week; he had to be reminded that Buck Stone was neither a green-as-grass rookie that could be pushed around nor the low man of the totem pole. No, he was a full-fledged FBI agent and thus, he deserved respect, which was something Burke granted too many times to a dirty little thief full of hot air. The White Collar Crime Unit's head investigator needed to be seen the errors of his ways, and Stone was the man for the job.

Reaching Peter's office, the agent placed the Anderson file right in the middle of the writing table to make sure his superior would see it first thing in the morning – as if a torn, battered and coffee-strained cardboard would be hard to miss. But something caught Stone's attention: it was another file with the name _"__Horace __Pippin__"_ written in bold letters on the cover. Reaching out, Stone opened it and indeed, it was all the information gathered by Jones, Burke and Caffrey during the week about the sketch from the Smithsonian Institute. It was full of evidences and documentation about the presence of Pippin at Château-Thierry during WWI and there was also a statement from the town's mayor (translated in English by Jones) which clarified the reasons why the artist had drawn this particular part of town before the German offensive of March 1918. Peter's report was impeccable and well-written, the kind of presentation that would assure him to make a good impression not only in front of Hughes, but also Director Baker for the meeting scheduled at 9:00 a.m. the next morning.

A nasty smile lightened Stone's features when he spotted the paper shredder located just under Peter's desk. Yes, that would do just fine…

Snatching the Pippin file, Stone gathered a handful of papers and, crouching behind the desk, he stuffed them on the device's openings. He pressed the "On" button and the shredder's hummed back into life and its blades grabbed mercilessly at the pages, turning them into ribbons of paper falling inside the machine's transparent plastic wastebasket. Stone took out everything – photos, reports, reproduction of old postcards, notes – and destroyed them with the shredder, which worked silently and efficiently. In less than two minutes, nothing was left of the Pippin file but long paper streamers inextricably mixed inside the wastebasket. All of Jones and Caffrey's hard work had been reduced to nothing, and Burke would have only an empty file to present to Hughes and Baker!

"I'm sorry you have to take the blunt of this, Burke," whispered Stone as the shredder swallowed the last piece of paper. "But you have been blinded for too long by Caffrey and his know-it-all attitude. It's high time you realize you should work with me and not with the little twerp, you are a FBI agent and you should act accordingly to your status. This will teach you a lesson in humility you'll never forget and you will treat me with more respect in the future. Boy, I'd almost wish I were a fly on the wall when Baker will call you an incompetent in front of the Old Fossil… who will send Caffrey back to jail, since his presence isn't helpful!"

Nonchalantly throwing the empty Pippin file's cardboard on Peter's desk, Stone got out of the office and went down the stairs to gather his coat and car keys. One look at José confirmed him the guy was done with the floors and would soon empty the wastebaskets as part of his cleaning routine. Stone had a hard time not to laugh out loud thinking José was his involuntary accomplice in his new, marvelous and failure-proof plan to get rid of Caffrey and put Burke down a few notches!

TBC…


	5. The aquamarine eyed Director

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- To Hae: thank you very much for your review!

- The Black Mamba is the longest venomous snake in Africa. Its bite is extremely dangerous and the animal has the reputation of being aggressive, territorial and very fast (from Wikipedia)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5: The aquamarine-eyed Director<strong>

_(Friday morning)_

"_This __time, __it __will __work,__" _thought Stone for the hundredth time. _"__I __have __watched __the __Pit __since __my __arrival __at __7:00 __this __morning __and __no one __came __in __Burke__'__s __office. __His __door __is __locked __and __I__'__ve __managed __to __take __a __peek __at __the __shredder __under __his __desk: __its __wastebasket __is __empty, __meaning __Joe __the __cleaning __guy __(or __whatever __the __Hell __his __name __is)__ has __dumped __the __remnants __of __the __report __in__garbage bags __before __closing __up __for __the __night.__The __empty __Pippin __file __is __still __on __Burke__'__s __desk, __like __a __carte-de-visite __from __yours __truly __to __remind __the__ smart-mouths __of __the __Unit __that __I __am __not __someone __to __be __ignored. __It__'__s __too __bad __having __to __put __Burke __in __trouble __to __get __rid __of __Caffrey __but __it __will __be __like __killing __two __birds __with __one __stone, __ha __ha!__"_

The agent gulped down noisily the coffee in his mug to hide his laughter; Jones, who was seated next to him, somberly thought his colleague had the manners of a pig on top of everything else. And why on Earth was he watching Peter's office all the time? Maybe Stone wanted to show off the paperwork concerning the Anderson case but it would take a small miracle for Peter to be impressed by anything done by the sloppiest agent of the Unit. Shrugging his large shoulders, Jones turned his attention towards his own work; Director Baker would arrive any minute to meet with Burke and Hughes about the Horace Pippin's sketch and that lady had quite a no-nonsense reputation. Burke would have to make a solid presentation so Jones was a little on the edge, since he had participated in this investigation as well as Caffrey, in order to not look like fools in front of the D.C. Bureau's representative.

The clock on the wall set on NY time showed it was 8:55 a.m. and the meeting with Baker would start in five minutes. Burke and Caffrey hadn't arrived yet and Barbara, Hughes' secretary, had been busy readying the conference room with cleaning up the whiteboard, preparing coffee and making sure the room's computer was up and running, in case Baker wanted to present PowerPoint slides on the projector. Barbara made it a point to have the conference room impeccable before every meeting with bigwigs, an attitude Hughes appreciated but Stone had often thought the secretary should type HIS reports instead of playing Mistress Busybee and earning brownie points from her prehistoric boss.

A "Ding" preceded the opening of the elevator's doors and Peter Burke almost jumped out of the moving device, followed by an ex-convict who was moving slower than usual.

"Damnit, Neal, I shouldn't have offered to pick you up this morning!" grumbled Peter. "We're almost late and I have a meeting with Director Baker in a few minutes!"

Caffrey mumbled an almost-inaudible _"__Sorry,__ Peter__"_ before heavily seating on his chair. Jones noticed Neal was rubbing his bloodshot conjonctives with the back of his hand and he looked a little pale, the common symptoms of someone feeling tired. Stone's disdainful smirk turned into a jealous one as he imagined the pet having scored with a supermodel last night and spending hours in riotous debauchery in his comfy guest room, just before the maid brought them breakfast in bed. Because, of course, Caffrey would be served by the wealthy widow's servant – Stone couldn't imagine the object of his wrath expecting nothing else but being served like a would-be lord.

"What took you so long to get ready, anyway?" asked Peter, still crossed at being rushed early in the morning. "I had to call you three times from my car before you managed to get out of June's house!"

"Peter, I'm tired. Just drop it, okay?"

Burke frowned at those words, puzzled about Neal's strange behavior. The younger man indeed looked worn out and his usual fluency had been reduced to very short sentences, which was odd since he was his usual self just the day before. Why, Neal had almost fallen asleep in the car on their way to the Bureau. Could he be coming down from something? But before Peter could enquire about his friend's health, Hughes called him out from the office's mezzanine:

"Burke! To the conference room, the meeting with Baker will begin any minute!"

Casting a last, concerned look at Neal, Peter quickly climbed the stairs and Stone watched gob-smacked as Hughes took Burke by the arm and lead him to the conference room, without giving him the chance to drop his coat in his office. But... What about the Pippin file? Burke would need it for the meeting and he was supposed to grab it on his desk... to hold only an empty shell! Curse the Old Fossil; he had deprived Stone of his fun!

The agent darted a furious glance upstairs, but then he calmed down as he remembered Burke's office was located next to the conference room; there was an inter-communicating door, allowing Peter to come and go between his desk and the conference table during meetings. Hughes may be monopolizing the moment but there would come a time when he would have to free Burke so the man would go to his office and get the Pippin file. Stone could still get a glimpse of Burke's stupefied face as he would realize all the documentation had mysteriously disappeared during the night. It was just a matter of seconds, just a few seconds...

* * *

><p>Another "Ding" was heard and the elevator let out a woman in her mid-fifties, dressed in an impeccable dark blue suit enhanced by a Hermes silk scarf, a briefcase in her hand. Her face looked very severe, an impression reinforced by her graying hair pulled back in a bun, her lips pressed together and her unblinking green-blue eyes. She was followed by a balding agent in a light grey suit who seemed to be dragging his feet, as if he wanted to be anywhere but in the NY FBI Building. The woman pushed open the glass door of the White Collar Crime Unit, barely letting enough time for her companion to enter without getting hit on the face with the door. Stone, who was standing in the middle of the aisle in his efforts to watch Peter returning to his office, got almost bumped aside by the woman. She frowned at him for getting in her way and gave him an ice-like look but before the agent could stammer a complain about her manners, Neal got up on his feet, his lack of sleep temporarily forgotten, and greeted the newcomers with one of his most charming smiles:<p>

"Director Baker and Agent Moore, I presume?"

The D.C. bigwig turned her aquamarine gaze towards the young man and, amazingly, a ghost of a smile appeared on her thin lips.

"You presume right, young man."

"I am Neal. Will you please follow me to the conference room? The meeting with Director Hughes and Agent Burke is about to start."

Stone remained agape: Caffrey was acting receptionist? But before he could protest over the scoundrel's nerve, Neal gently lead Director Baker and Agent Moore towards the stairs. Over the office's conversations, the grumpy agent could hear the conman and the Ice Lady exchanging pleasantries (the bald guy remained silent and sullen) and that made seething with rage. The D.C. Director had glared at him, an FBI Agent, before playing nice with an ex-convict? The world had gone mad, that was the only logical explanation!

Stone took one step forward with the intention of grabbing Caffrey by the neck and send him fly through the Pit, but Hughes suddenly appeared on the mezzanine, ruining his plans for the second time this morning.

"Director Baker, welcome to the White Collar Crime Unit. I trust you had a good flight?" asked the Old Fossil.

"Actually, it was dreadful Director Hughes, and I truly hope our meeting will make these inconveniences worth it," said the Ice Lady. Neal stepped aside to let her climb the stairs and Baker silently thanked him with a very slight inclination of her head. Moore didn't even looked at Neal, just let out a long-suffering sigh at the thought of having to endure a three-hour meeting after spending two hours locked inside a plane with his non-nonsense superior. A furious glance from aquamarine eyes cut his sigh short and soon, the doors of the conference room closed behind the two Directors and the two Agents.

Neal had remained at the bottom of the stairs and, after one last look upwards, he returned to his desk while trying unsuccessfully to stifle his yawns behind his hand. He had been able to present a straight face in front of Baker but his tiredness was coming back with a vengeance. He sat down, rubbed his face once more and then a mug full of fresh coffee suddenly materialized on his desk. Neal looked up in surprise to see Jones kindly smiling up at him.

"Oh, thank you Jones," said the young man gratefully. A high dosage of caffeine would help him forget his sleepless night.

"You're welcome, my man, I thought you needed some," answered the dark-skinned agent before returning to his work.

Stone sat back to his desk and remained as still as a statue. The meeting had started and Burke hadn't gone to his office to grab the empty Pippin file. Five minutes passed, marked by the unforgiving hands of the wall clock, then ten, then thirteen, and still the conference room remained silent. No frustrated exclamations from Baker, no angry growls from Hughes, nor embarrassed explanations from Burke... In fact, nothing unusual was happening in the Pit, apart from the agent keeping still like a dummy, staring upstairs and waiting for something to happen. But Stone's strange behavior finally caught Diana's attention and she asked:

"Oy, Stone! Are you daydreaming?"

The agent jumped a feet in the air as if he had received an electric shock.

"What? NO!"

"Well, it certainly looked like you were!" said the woman over her shoulder before heading for the copy machine.

Stone mentally took a note to have Berrigan fired after he had become Burke's official partner but it wasn't the right time to speculate about the future. He had to go upstairs and investigate what was happening, why Burke hadn't come out of the meeting with an empty file in hand and looking for answers. But how could he do it? It was impossible to enter the conference room for the moment, Burke's office was still closed and Barbara wasn't the kind to eavesdrop (another one who thought too highly of herself). Glancing at the amount of paperwork on his desk, Stone suddenly spotted some letters concerning the Anderson case. Those documents should have been included in the file but the agent, too focused on his conspiracy, had forgotten all about them; they would make a good pretext to go upstairs and take a peek at the conference room through its glass walls.

His decision made, Stone grabbed the letters and climbed the stairs two steps at a time; trying to look nonchalant, he glanced at the room on his right and...

…the letters fell from Stone's hand.

_Baker and Moore were looking at photographs from the Pippin case!_

The shock almost made him gasp out loud; that was impossible and yet, Baker and Moore were seated with their backs at the conference room's door and Stone had an impregnable view on the documents they were holding. The agent recognized the old black-and-white photographs of Château-Thierry taken just before WWI, the same ones he had destroyed using Burke's personal shredder.

A movement caught Stone's attention and he saw Peter standing up, talking animatedly and pointing at something on the white board before taking out a written document on a red file lying on the table and reading from it. As on cue, Baker took out a document from another red file, like she was following what Burke was saying out loud. In the far end of Stone's point of view he could see a seated Hughes, his hand under his chin; he was listening attentively to what his Head Investigator was saying, nodding in approbation from time to time. Moore moved slightly on his chair with the gracefulness of an overweight elephant, revealing another red file under his elbow; a photograph escaped from the folder to fall on the floor, and once again it was a copy of one of the pre-WWI postcards collected for the Horace Pippin case.

_The documents Stone had destroyed the night before had risen from their ashes and they were used for the meeting with Ice Lady Baker. _

The agent thought he had gone mad. He glanced at Peter's office and he could see it had remained locked and untouched since last night. The empty Pippin folder was still on the desk, his former flamboyant revenge which looked more like a pathetic fragment of spite, as if its contents had been shredded for nothing. Stone's atomic bomb had turned into a damp squib, and his mind was reeling with frantic questions.

_What in the world happened?_

_Where there backup copies of the Pippin file and Stone hadn't known about them?_

_In that case, they would have been in Burke's computer! And no-one but him could have the password, the FBI office's policy was very strict about this point: no employee is allowed to give his or her computer's password to a colleague._

_But Burke never opened his office's door, how could he have access to his computer?_

_Then… where there backup files on someone else's computer?_

_And who made the damn photocopies and placed them in red folders, ready for the meeting?_

_Who?_

The man glared at Barbara, who was innocently typing something on her desk computer. No, it couldn't be her: she didn't have the key of Burke's office; she arrived at 8:30 and immediately busied herself in getting the conference room ready for the meeting. Not once did she mentioned the Pippin file or went to the copy machine – Stone had watched her coming and going all morning and she never had the red files in hand. Besides, a stupid secretary couldn't have the brains to play such a trick to an experienced agent such as himself.

It could have been the Old Fossil, but Stone dismissed this idea at once. Like most senior people, Hughes didn't like using computers and preferred to let all the documentation being handled by Barbara. Hughes only read his e-mails and Internet messages from other antediluvian directors; also, he had arrived around 8:17 (Stone had kept a sharp record of everyone's arrival this morning, for his plan to come to fruition) and hadn't moved from his office once, not even to go to the bathroom. Also, the idea of preparing files for a meeting, like a common clerk, would never cross the mind of the White Collar Crime Unit Director. It certainly wouldn't cross Stone's!

Burke had never gone in his office this morning. The Old Fossil had harpooned him as soon as he had stepped foot in the Unit at 8:55. There was no way he could have opened backup files from his computer, printed them and put them in the red folders without getting out of the conference room. Plus, Ice Lady Baker and her minion had arrived at 9:00 precisely, leaving no time for making copies.

_Then, who?_

Accidently stomping on the Anderson case's letters lying on the mezzanine, Stone scowled downwards, in the Pit. He looked around in an effort to nail the backstabber but, after a few minutes, he had to admit no one in the Harvard Squad could have escaped his eagle-like vigilance. Jones was a potential candidate but he had arrived at 8:32 and he had moved from his desk, only to get some coffee at the kitchen corner; Berrigan had come a few minutes later and she had spent about half an hour talking to Jacobson on the phone. Red-haired Price never showed up, he was on a meeting on the eighteenth floor. Jonathon Taylor, the youngest member of the squad, was too inexperienced to fool Stone – and, on top of everything, the kid was barely an accountant, not a computer whiz able to crack password codes. Williamson, Smith, Ford… All his colleagues' names came to the resentful agent's mind and every time, he had to admit there couldn't have been a traitor amongst them. Stone had arrived first in the office this morning and if somebody of the Pit had made copies of the Horace Pippin case he would have inevitably noticed it.

_Could have it been the night custodian, Joey something?_

Stone snorted at the idea; a cleaning guy, of all people! A man barely intelligent enough to mop floors and empty wastebaskets, suddenly having the idea to retrieve password-protected computer files inside an FBI building under permanent CCTV surveillance!

Then something caught his attention and his gaze turned into flint stones.

_Caffrey!_

The young man was still seated at his desk, his sleepy eyes blinking at something on his computer screen. He had one hand supporting his head while the other one was lazily clicking on the mouse's buttons. His general behavior was just like the one of a tired employee trying to keep it up with the day's business but anger made Stone see red.

_Caffrey, of course! That thief! Sneaking around little bastard! It was him who had found the backup files; he must have forced the lock of Burke's office door! It was him who had made the photocopies for the meeting with Baker! Smart-mouthed hypocrite with the angelic face, he was the culprit who had ruined his plans! _

Stone growled like a wounded bear and turned about (ripping one of the Anderson letters under his right shoe in the process) with the intention to go downstairs and wrap his hands around Caffrey's neck, when suddenly Barbara appeared at his elbow:

"Is there something wrong, agent Stone?"

"What's it to you?" barked the man.

"Well, you have been staring down at the Pit for the past ten minutes, and now you are using letters as doormat, so I am allowed to think that something isn't quite right in your mind," said the young woman calmly, not at all put off by his rudeness.

Barbara's answer had the effect of a cold shower on an agitated mentally ill patient. Stone glanced to the mezzanine's floor to see his footprints all over the letters he was supposed to hand out for Peter, leaving the documents in an awful mess. No way he could present them to the man he was dreaming of becoming his partner! Also, some persons in the Pit – especially Jones and Berrigan – were eying him with insistence, like they were wondering what was taking him so long to go back downstairs. Normally, Stone would have snarled about people unable to mind their own businesses but his conspiring nature advised him to be more cautious. Caffrey was the guilty party, no doubts about it, but the agent couldn't make a scandal in front of his pseudo-colleagues without presenting proofs of the thief's treachery; and especially not on the day when a D.C. bigwig was lurking about in the office.

Growling, Stone picked up the letters on the floor and went down the stairs without even deigning to answer Barbara. He went to his desk and picked up an eraser to try and make the footprints disappear; the rip would have to be dealt with some tape before photocopying the documents and present them to Burke. While working, Stone shot daggers at Caffrey but the young man never noticed a thing, too absorbed by the document shown on his screen. And then, the agent remembered something:

_Caffrey came to the office with Burke. He couldn't have made copies of the Pippin file this morning!_

Quite true! The two men had come together and Burke had scolded lazy Caffrey for making them arriving almost late. Besides, there was absolutely no way Burke would have given Caffrey the password to his personal computer. Only a madman could trust the scoundrel so much and Burke was a professional to the core; he knew boundaries had to be made, especially with his pet crook. Stone had overheard once a conversation between Agents Jones and Cruz during Caffrey's debut at the White Collar Unit, about how the thief's desk computer would be monitored by a program recording all of his Internet inquiries and he wouldn't have access to FBI confidential files. It was impossible that Caffrey would have obtained authorization to wander into the Bureau's computer system and gain information about stolen riches right under his handler's nose.

Stone felt perspiration droplets rolling on his forehead. He was at a loss to figure out how the Pippin case's documentation had came back to life but, bottom line, he was once again ruined. Had he been superstitious, he would have believed dark forces were at work and someone had cast a spell on him but, being a professional FBI agent, he could only think that someone was systematically thwarting his plans to become Burke's partner. Jones' money, Berrigan's watch and the Pippin file, there were simply too many coincidences to believe otherwise and the only miscreant Stone could think of was…

"_Caffrey,__" _thought the agent with enough venom in his mind to kill a Black Mamba snake._ "__I __don__'__t __know __how __he __does __it, __but __he__'__ll __pay __for __his __tricks __with __his __life. __No __one __makes __a __fool __out __of __me __and __goes __unpunished. __I __will __have __him __sent __back __to __the __slammer __before __the __end __of __the __week, __I __swear __it. __And __I __will __bribe __a __few __guardians __to __make __them __look __the __other __way; __Caffrey __will __be __raped __over __and __over __again __and __with __a __little __luck, __he__'__ll __commit __suicide!__"_

In his fury, Stone enlarged the rip on the Anderson case's letter, cutting up the document in two uneven parts.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, Directors Baker and Hughes walked out of the conference room. Even with the Pit's incessant commotion of phones ringing, conversations and movements, Stone could hear the conversation between the Old Fossil and the Ice Lady and it was downright unbelievable!<p>

"Well, Director Hughes, I am impressed by your Head Investigator. Agent Burke has presented solid proofs that the Horace Pippin sketch is genuine; the Smithsonian Institute will be very pleased," said Baker with an almost-smile on her face while walking down the stairs, briefcase in hand.

"I am glad we have been able to help you solve this case, Director Baker," answered the ancient moron at the heels of the D.C. bigwig. "Please do not hesitate to request our assistance anytime you need it."

Moore and Burke were following their respective bosses; the former had his usual good-natured expression on his face but the latter was making it a point to avoid eye contact with anyone; apparently he was still angry for being here but also for Burke's success in front of his superior. Moore was still in disgrace for having showed appreciation towards Fowler, a dirty agent who had repetitively tried to illegally entrap Burke in order to extract information from Caffrey; the scandal had been covered up but Moore was still picking up the pieces from having sent an imprudent email to Fowler.

Baker and Hughes still babbled about the importance of inter-bureau cooperation until they were near the Unit's glass entrance doors, and then the woman shook the older man's hand, and then Burke's.

"Thanks again, Director Hughes. Be assured that my report will describe favorably your service. Agent Burke, again receive my congratulations for an excellent job. The Horace Pippin sketch is priceless for the American Art heritage and the Smithsonian Institute simply cannot be accused of having a fake drawing among its collection."

"Thank you, Director Baker," said Peter, "but I cannot take all the credit. This is the result of teamwork and my people have worked together to authenticate the Pippin artwork."

"All of them?"

"Yes, especially Agent Jones…" said Peter while gesturing towards the dark-skinned Agent, who saluted with a nod of the head.

"And our C.I. Neal Caffrey," finished the Head Investigator with a movement of his hand towards his partner. Neal interrupted his writing and got on his feet, smiling eagerly at the group.

Baker recognized the polite young man who had greeted them at their arrival and her aquamarine eyes widened in surprise. Obviously, she hadn't imagined the conman with such an incredible reputation to be so charming! Moore growled like a wolf in chains at the sight of the man who was, according to him, the reason for all his troubles. But Neal ignored Baker's stare or Moore's animosity; he was grateful to Peter for having mentioned his contribution in the Pippin case so he kept on smiling, his sapphires shining in Pride after having heard the woman's words of praise about his partner.

Baker seemed to be put off but it lasted only for a few seconds. She was a FBI Director in a D.C. bureau and surprising news had been her daily bread for more than twenty years. Her ice-like mask quickly fell back into place and she asked sharply:

"Neal Caffrey, the con man?"

Peter inwardly frowned at the idea of Director Baker disapproving of having Neal around to solve cases, but he wasn't the kind of man to back off from his decisions. The young man had been an asset to the White Collar Unit since day one and Peter was ready to quote their crime-solving numbers to convince Baker of the necessity to use Neal's talents; but the Ice woman took everyone by surprise by holding out her hand to Caffrey, who took it without hesitation.

"Good work, Caffrey. Keep it up!"

Neal managed to keep his smile as Baker crushed his fingers in her strong grip, and then she left the White Collar Crime Unit without adding another word. Moore glared at Caffrey one last time and he turned about just in time for the revolving glass door to bump his nose. He started to curse but a no-nonsense glare from his superior quickly ended his complains. The elevator doors opened with their trademark "ding" and Baker entered the cabin, followed by Moore who was desperately searching his pockets for a handkerchief.

Peter waited until Director Baker and her agent left the nineteenth floor and then he gently put his hand Neal's shoulder. Hughes grunted at the two men before heading for his office.

"So, how did the meeting go? Did I miss anything good?" asked Neal.

"The meeting went fine and you had a great idea with comparing the 1913 de la Fontaine' square photograph with Pippin's sketch. I insisted on the hare and turtle bush sculptures and how Horace Pippin could have drawn them only from a close point of view."

"And Moore?"

"He was quiet all the time, which is a good thing because neither Baker nor Hughes would have tolerated comments from him. He'll probably keep silent for the years to come to salvage what is left of his career."

"You have the right to remain silent…" started to recite Neal, but Peter grabbed his shoulder good-naturally and led him towards his office.

"Come on, you impossible man; let's have a look at the new mortgage-fraud scam that had been thrown at us, and then I am treating Jones and you for lunch!"

"Oh boy! Can we go to the Central Station oyster bar?"

"Oh no, buddy, we are not going to one of those restaurants with extravagant bills you seem to cherish! Since I pay, I pick the place, got it?"

"Aw, not Chinese takeout again," started to whine Neal, but an affectionate squeeze from Peter's hand on his shoulder efficiently cut him off.

Unaware to them, Stone watched in silent hate Burke and Caffrey climbing up the stairs. Burke took out his keys and unlocked his office's door; the smarty-pants thief immediately lowered himself in one of the chairs while the Head Investigator picked up the original Horace Pippin file from his desk. Peter frowned lightly at the empty file and then he shrugged and dropped it in the wastebasket. He opened the inter-communicating door to retrieve his briefcase and coat in the conference room, and then he went back to give Neal a more detailed account of the new mortgage fraud scam.

Stone felt like puking all over his blotched paperwork.

TBC…


	6. The azure eyed woman

**Disclaimer:**same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- To LvSammy: please don't die because of the suspense! xD I'm posting a new chapter every weekend and I hope you will like this one.

- I forgot to precise this story takes place after Season 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6: The azure-eyed woman<strong>

_(Friday evening)_

A satisfied FBI agent was driving his Ford Taurus through Manhattan's concrete canyons, smiling at the thought of the nice weekend ahead of him: the company of his beautiful wife Elizabeth, a great baseball game on TV and a romantic dinner on Saturday evening at Il Mandolino's, one of the most sought-after Italian restaurants of NY. Elizabeth deserved a nice treat after all the work she had done on the Fetherstonaugh wedding reception. The father of the bride, Mr. Wellington-Smith, was a cantankerous old sod with a hundred demands one day and a thousand complaints the next, arguing endlessly about the prices and threatening to find a new events' organizer every time Elizabeth had dared to prove him wrong.

Wellington-Smith had crossed the line, however, after he had gotten the idea to call Elizabeth at nights to ask for estimates or catalogues, since nothing she proposed could be good enough for his _"__dear __little __daughter__"_. Fed up by the guy's attitude, Peter had grabbed the phone after it had rang at two o'clock in the morning and he had told Wellington-Smith that he was going to kick his posterior so hard his dear little daughter would have to walk to the altar alone, since Daddy Dearest wouldn't be able to stand on his feet for a week or so. Strangely, Wellington-Smith had stopped his night callings and became much more amiable, even signing the bill without batting an eyelid.

Peter chuckled at the recollection of this incident, remembering the kiss Elizabeth had given him and how she had called him her knight in shining FBI armor. He asked out loud:

"Hey Neal, do you want me to tell you about a funny thing that happened this week?"

Silence greeted him, which was odd considering the talkative nature of his passenger. Peter turned his head and saw Neal was losing the battle against sleep he had been fighting all day. His eyes were closed, he was slumped on the passenger's seat and he obviously hadn't heard a word his keeper had said. The kid had gratefully accepted Peter's offer to drive him home, saving him from a long walk after another tedious day at the office – especially since it had been raining over New York for the past two hours.

"Neal?"

"Hmm," was the only laconic answer, and Peter was getting worried. Neal always shown vast resources of energy, making him constantly ready to help with cases, go undercover or – Heaven forbids – develop more-or-less legal activities on his hidden agenda. But the young man had been kind of quiet lately and the dark shadows under his eyes were a testimony of his tiredness. Why, he didn't even try to play with the GPS system of the Ford Taurus, something that would normal annoy Peter but right now, he would almost welcome it. What could be wrong with the kid, was he getting sick? That would be troublesome since Neal detested being examined by doctors and had a fear of hospitals similar to Mozzie's. Maybe he was roaming the streets at nights, renewing his contacts with the underworld and planning coups, but that was a ridiculous notion: when he wasn't working, Neal was assigned within a two-mile radius and any infraction would make his tracking anklet beep like crazy, raising the alarm among the US Marshals. No, something was happening and Neal was directly linked to it, but what could it be to make him lose sleep?

Peter felt like bombarding the ex-convict with questions, but he refrained from it at the last second. Experience had taught him that Neal was too intelligent to crack under the pressure of an interrogation. He had survived four years in a maximum-security prison without getting physically hurt, a proof of his resourcefulness but God knows what kind of horrors he had witnessed there. Besides, Peter prided himself in being Neal's friend and treating him like a suspect wasn't compatible with his notion of fondness. The kid had had enough on his plate lately – Fowler's blackmail, Kate's death – and the last thing he needed was an inquisition-like quiz from the only person in his life he trusted.

Peter sighed and turned his attention back to the traffic, wishing Elizabeth were in the car with them. His wife could coax the truth out from the most reluctant conversationalist with her kindness and empathy, and Neal wasn't immune to her talent. Heck, Elizabeth had even succeeded in taming Mozzie, the world's worst conspiracy theorist who saw government involvements around every street corner!

"Red light," said Neal suddenly.

"Huh?"

"I said, RED LIGHT!"

Peter snapped out of his reverie and slammed on the brakes, stopping his car just in time before a zebra crossing. Some walkers cast a dirty look towards the Ford Taurus' driver, making Neal chuckle quietly in the background. He may be worn out but it was always safe to keep an eye on the road when Peter was driving.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, I was just thinking the Ford Motor Company had designed this car with your imprudent driving in mind. All this technology is mandatory to prevent you from terrorizing pedestrians."

"With that waggling of yours, kid, you'll become a pedestrian soon!" grumbled Peter, but Neal merely shrugged. He knew his favorite FBI agent was too much a gentleman to carry out his threat; Peter wouldn't kick him out of his warm car to make him walk his way home under the rain. The young man yawned and shifted on his seat, trying to find a comfortable position until they would reach June's house. He felt himself dozing off again but Peter's voice disturbed his rest.

"So, you have any plans for the weekend?" asked the agent after the traffic lights had turned green again.

Neal inwardly sighed; he didn't have the courage to have a conversation but he knew Peter wouldn't let the matter drop. The man was like a dog with a bone, refusing to let go until it had chewed out the last particle of marrow.

"Nope, just rest... It'd do a lot of good."

"You do look a little worn out around the edges, kid. Are you coming down with something? You can take some days off in case of illness, you know."

Despite being bone tired, Neal couldn't help but smile. _Good __ol__' __Peter_.

"No, I'm not sick; I've just spent too much time on... a work of art last night and I forgot the time, even forgot to go to bed."

Peter frowned, but said nothing. He knew Neal was obfuscating, that was obvious. The kid wouldn't lie outright to his face but he was always reluctant to tell Peter the whole truth, mostly because it would endanger Mozzie or raise embarrassing questions about his own past. The Fed hoped Neal wasn't getting involved with another plan to find the puppet-master who had been behind Kate's death, Fowler's disgrace and so on. He had warned the kid of the dangers of trying to solve a case on his own with the story of cocky Jimmy Burger, a former C.I. who had ended with a bullet in the forehead, but Peter also knew his friend was too smart for this kind of behavior. Besides, it would be hard for Neal to play detective within a two-mile radius. However, there was the matter of Mozzie, who had access to all kind of classified information, and opportunist fence Alexandra Hunter who helped as long as it would serve her goals: these two could spell trouble for Neal by constantly dangling in front of his face plans to steal valuables worth millions. The kid had a weak spot for shiny things and his intelligence could get somewhat clouded every time an ill-gotten fortune would come too close for Peter's comfort.

"How 'bout you?" asked Neal around another yawn. "You have your weekend scheduled?"

"Yeah, there's a fantastic game on TV Saturday afternoon, and in the evening El and I will have dinner at Il Mandolino's."

"Wow, that's one of the best restaurants in town! Are you getting a taste of _la __vida __loca_, Peter?"

"No, smart-mouth, I just think she deserves a nice reward after putting up with that bothersome customer who wanted a fairy-tale wedding for his daughter while keeping the prices as low as possible. He made El's life impossible for weeks, calling her night and day to make changes and he even had the nerve to threaten her with a lawsuit if the wedding wasn't exactly like what his darling baby wanted. By the way, that reminds me when our home phone rang in the middle of the night, and it was that curmudgeon old guy..."

Peter started telling about how he had given Mister Wellington-Smith a piece of his mind about his blatant rudeness towards Elizabeth, and he finished the anecdote by concluding with a chuckle: "I thought he would have a heart attack after he heard me yelling over the phone: _"__I __am __Elizabeth__'__s __husband __AND __an __FBI __agent__"_. Too bad it didn't send him to the hospital, though; that would have saved El a lot of trouble, but he hang on to life anyway – no wonder, he is so tight-fisted!"

Only soft snores could be heard, and Peter looked at his passenger again to see Neal had truly fallen asleep this time. Shaking his head, the older man returned his attention to the road, wondering if he should be offended by his partner's lack of interest to the conversation or worried about his health. A honking was heard on his left and Peter corrected the Taurus' direction, grumbling under his breath at the impatient taxi driver who had wanted to pass regardless of traffic safety. Only this time, Neal was too lost in his dreams to make comments about Peter's driving, and his silence was somehow unnerving.

* * *

><p>"Neal, you're home."<p>

The Taurus had stopped nearby the door of June's mansion, but still the young man hadn't moved an inch from his seat. From his relaxed state, one could have sworn Neal had decided to spend the night in the car, finding its comfort much better than his own bed.

"Neal, this is where you live. Wake up!" said Peter, but he couldn't obtain a reaction from his friend. It was raining harder every minute and no doubts Neal would get soaked walking the few steps to the entrance door, even if Peter parked the car as close as he was allowed to.

"C'mon, buddy, wake up!" said Peter. He shook Neal by the shoulder and then, without giving it a second thought, he gently tapped his face. Neal shifted on the headrest and leaned onto the touch with a soft sigh, his cheek resting on the palm of the hand. Peter's heart melted; that kid, that incredible, annoying, cocky, gifted, handsome and vulnerable kid! He could charm his way into other people's affection even asleep!

Peter got one of his 'Proud Papa' grin on his face again, and then he sobered at the thought he would probably have to get Neal out of the car and to half-drag, half-carry him to June's door, an action that would inevitably lead them both soaked; on the other hand, Peter couldn't picture himself leaving Neal sleep in the Taurus after having parked it in front of the Burke's house in Brooklyn. El would be appalled at the thought of leaving the young man in the vehicle like an box full of junk and she would insist in making Neal sleep in their guest room – something Peter didn't look upon to either, after a tough week of work (especially with the visit from Director Baker) he had been looking forward to a quiet weekend with his wife.

Fortunately, Neal finally woke up, saving his handler from his dilemma. Peter quickly withdrew his hand, not wanting to embarrass his friend – or for the said friend to make fun of him – and Neal blinked like an owlet, trying to make out his surroundings but all he could see were rain-splashed windows and a familiar, yet blurry, face.

"Pet'r?"

"Yeah, pal, we are at June's. And it's high time you crawl into your bed, considering you've been drooling on my headrest for the past ten minutes."

"Did not!"

"Did too."

"Not."

"Too. Are you going to argue with me now?"

"Naw, too tired. Thanks for the lift, Peter, I'll see you on Monday morning, 'kay?"

"Okay, get some rest."

Neal flashed one of his trademarks smiles – albeit with a lot less energy than usual – and then he opened the car door just before yelping in protest from the downpour of rain falling on his head.

"Hey, that's cold!"

"It will wake you up, buddy!"

"That's even colder, Peter."

The Agent shook his head as he watched his friend running towards the mansion at the risk of slipping over a puddle of water and falling down the stairs, hunching his shoulders in a vain attempt to prevent the rain from ruining his Devore suit. Neal rang the bell and, after a few instants, a shadow dressed in black and white appeared behind the glazed, Art Deco iron-wrought front door; it was the maid, Naomi, who let the young man in with a warm smile. Peter couldn't hear their conversation but he was ready to bet a month's salary that Naomi would take pity of poor, drenched Neal and would bring him a cup of tea served with pasties to console him from this dreadful weather.

"_Infernal __charmer,__"_ thought Peter, firing up the Taurus for his long drive to Brooklyn.

* * *

><p><em>(Friday night)<em>

Peter and Elizabeth were enjoying a quiet time in front of the TV, slumped on the couch and with their arms thrown around one another. Dinner had been eaten, the dishes had been washed and dried; nothing could interrupt the tranquility of a Friday night spent in a comfy home with a loved one. Satchmo, their Golden Labrador, was dozing at the feet of the couch, apparently having given up understanding the plot of the cop show. Normally the Burkes wouldn't indulge with this kind of program, with Peter dealing with enough crimes during the week to enjoy these shows and Elizabeth stating that even the world's most talented actor in the world could be as good as her husband; but they were both too tired to watch anything else but mindless TV.

Elizabeth was curled against Peter, her head against his throat and her arm resting on his stomach. Peter had his arm wrapped around El's shoulders and it gave him the opportunity to kiss her nice-smelling dark hair every now and then, making the woman sigh in content. Peter was grateful for this quietness as they were both tired from their work; El wasn't the kind to complain but he knew she had been through the grinder with old buzzard Wellington-Smith, the kind of customer that could ruin her business in a snap with his constant arguing. Events' planning was a cutthroat business and Peter knew many competitors were jealous of El's success, especially after Neal had discreetly pulled one or two strings to incite New York art big shots to systematically call Burke's Premiere Events for their receptions and private views.

"Honey?" asked Elizabeth during a commercial break.

"Yes?"

"You seem preoccupied. Is there anything wrong?"

Peter inwardly sighed; he had married a too-perspicacious woman, nothing escaped El's azure gaze. No wonder she was so good at her job.

"I'm not preoccupied, it is just… I hate to admit it, but I'm worried."

"About what, is it Fowler again?"

"No, he's no longer an issue. It's about Neal and… some bothersome things that had happened at the office."

El straightened up on the couch to look at her husband's face. She had a soft spot towards the con artist; she had seen how talented and intelligent he was and she truly hoped he would remain on the straight and narrow under Peter's firm but caring tutelage. But she also knew Neal was sensible to temptations, whether they were painted, sculpted or made of precious metal and she dreaded the day Peter would have to send the young man to prison, ruining both his reputation at the Bureau and Neal's chance of redemption.

"Do you think Neal is planning to take things he isn't supposed to?"

"No, he has been behaving himself lately. I guess he is slowly accepting Kate's death; it has been a terrible shock to him and it grew worse after he realized he would have died with her if I hadn't held him back at the airport. And there's still the matter of the Man with the Ring; I promised Neal we would find his identity and he seems to accept it is a time-consuming delicate matter. He trusts me to find Kate's killer and I won't let him down, even though patience isn't easy when you are desperate for answers after a loved one has been murdered. For all I know, during the days Neal takes refuge in solving cases, working hard to keep his mind away from questions about the explosion that had killed Kate."

"And during the nights?" asked El.

"That's what bothers me; Neal showed up at the office looking very tired all week. I didn't notice it at first because he was showing his usual cocky self, giving very good insights about the Anderson painting and the Horace Pippin sketch. Even Director Baker was impressed by his work and that's no easy feat. But yesterday, and especially today, he seemed to be on his last legs. I thought he was coming down from a bug but he assured me he was fine, just lacking sleep from working too much on his art instead of resting in his bed."

"You don't think it's true?"

"I know Neal is a very good artist and it would be logical to think he uses his art to overcome his grief; maybe he does paint from dusk to dawn to find solace from his loss, or because he's afraid he'd dream of Kate whenever he'd close his eyes. But I can't shake the feeling that there is something going on, even if Neal does his best to hide it."

Elizabeth shifted on the couch, absently drumming her fingers on Peter's flat belly. Her husband's radar had raised the alarm again and she knew better than ignore it. He had a keen sense of observation, a talent that had helped him to see thought cases that would have been dismissed as irrelevant otherwise. And, whenever Neal was involved, Peter's radar would work overtime in order to keep up with the quicksilver mind of the con man.

"I pulled a map of his movements this afternoon," continued Peter, "and according to his tracking anklet Neal has stayed home for all week when he hasn't been working or with me. He doesn't go shopping, walk June's dog around the block or even go to the nearby park for some fresh air. No, he acts as if he has reduced his radius on his own, living like a monk between his room and the office."

"He may be hiding in fear that the people who had killed Kate might be after him now!" exclaimed Elizabeth.

"I thought of that too, but it can't be; Neal is a courageous man and he's not the kind to back off in front of hostiles and crawl under a rock until the storm is gone. That's Mozzie's technique, not Neal's. He wants to know above everything the identity of the culprit responsible for Kate's death and he wouldn't hesitate endangering his life to get answers. Besides, he's the only one who knows about the location of stolen goods and no truant worth his salt would kill such a gold mine of information. Kidnapping is not an option thanks to the tracking anklet and Hughes wants us to stay away from undercover operations; he won't risk Neal in the field for the moment, not after what happened recently with Fowler."

Silence followed Peter's words, letting Elizabeth think about that horrible episode with Fowler and his uses of OPR resources to try to entrap first Neal, and then Peter. He had even arrested her in front of her customers under ridiculous charges, all this to get an angry reaction from her husband – and it had worked, after Peter had knocked a tooth out of Fowler's mouth, earning a two-week suspension in the process. Elizabeth had said nothing at the time but she had secretly enjoyed the sight of Fowler's bloodied mouth after she had lost a good customer, thanks to the corrupted agent!

"You said bothersome things were happening at the office. What kind of things?"

"Oh, it's that idiot Stone. He's the sloppiest agent of the office and he seems to have a fixation about slandering Neal and making snide comments. I know some people feared Neal's presence at the Bureau in the beginning but the kid has succeeded in making friends with everyone; after Kate's death, they all asked when he'd be back, can you believe it? Jones and Diana have praised his good undercover work and even Hughes had told me in confidence that he considered Neal as an asset to the Unit. So far, Neal is trusted and appreciated by all my agents, except for Stone."

"Isn't he the one who had also applied for the position of Head Investigator and was so furious after it had been granted to you?" asked El, her blue eyes hardening a little as she remembered the incident perfectly. She had seen Stone once while visiting Peter at the White Collar Unit and the seething rage she had seen in the man's eyes had made her shudder.

"Yep, honey, that's the very same. But he has a snowball's chance in Hell to ever earn that position. His paperwork is a mess, he has no social skills and he treats his co-workers like his personal slaves – and in the same time, he believes being God's gift to the FBI! But he's nothing but a pawn with delusions of grandeur, honey, and not a danger whatsoever."

"Are you sure? Maybe he hopes Neal will make a _faux __pas_, deliberately or not, and you will be blamed for it and demoted from your job."

Peter smiled adoringly at his wife; they steadfastly supported each other and that was one of the reasons their couple was so successful.

"Please don't worry, El. Like I've said, no amount of slander from Stone can ever discourage me from keeping Neal around. This kid has so much potential it would be criminal to cancel our deal; besides, Stone is too stupid to realize he is digging his own grave with his muckraking. Hughes has been waiting for months for an occasion to get rid of him and his bad temper, alongside with his calumnies against Neal, will probably be used as pretext to transfer Stone to another service. Hughes doesn't suffer fools easily and Agent Rice has realized that fact a bit too late, even if she had tried to play nice with Neal after selling him out to Ryan Wilkes for a chance to save the Gless girl. She is now enduring the full power of Hughes' wrath and she'd better keep a low profile for the years to come to save her job."

But Elizabeth didn't seem reassured by Peter's words. She remained quiet for a minute, and then she asked:

"Honey, don't you fear that Stone would do something bad… Like, I don't know, stealing something from the Bureau and then accuse Neal? He would make a perfect scapegoat, just like the time he had been set up by Fowler and accused of having stolen that pink diamond."

Peter inwardly winced; the pink diamond heist wasn't something he was overly proud of. Fowler had engraved Neal's initials on the gem and Peter had arrested the kid on the spot, sending him back to maximum-security prison. Neal had to take enormous risks to escape from a judge's chambers, run to freedom and then hide in the Burkes' kitchen, all this to present Peter irrefutable proofs of Fowler's treachery. All had turned for the best in the end but the agent still kicked himself from time to time for having been deceived like an intern – and, above everything else, for not having listened to Neal's protests of innocence.

"I see your point, El, but Stone has neither the resources nor the intelligence to entrap Neal with jewels. And the OPR guys have finally understood that Neal is off-limits for them; right now, they are too busy doing some damage control after that nasty business with Fowler to poke their noses within the White Collar unit. No, I'm pretty sure Stone will finally realize his venom is harmful only to himself and he'll calm down."

"I trust your judgment, honey," said Elizabeth, curling back against her husband. She was so grateful for this agreeable evening, where she and her Peter were finally allowed to relax, that she didn't want anything to disturb it, not even the souvenir of a rancorous man.

TBC…


	7. The turquoise eyed agent

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- "Don Quixote de la Mancha" is a novel written between 1605 and 1615 by Spanish writer Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616).

- Details from the Penny Black stamp come from Wikipedia.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7: the turquoise-eyed agent<strong>

_(Monday morning)_

The first work day of the week saw a fresh-looking Neal Caffrey pushing open the glass doors of the White Collar Crime Unit. The young man had spent the weekend catching up on lost sleep and he was feeling anew; he had even gotten out of the house on Saturday for a good swim at the pool, which had done wonders to his body and he had even started a new painting – something that hadn't happened since Kate's death. Unknowingly to Peter, Neal hadn't picked up a brush since the jet's explosion, the grief and the pain had made it impossible to concentrate on his art. Every time he had tried to draw something in charcoal he had ended up crying, smudging his face with dark powder while the tears ran down his face. But during the weekend, a project had formed inside his mind and Neal had found himself sketching away, trying to find the best composition for the painting. Finally, on Sunday evening, he had drawn the outlines of the future painting on a brand-new canvas and, as strange as it could appear, he had felt some of his life-energy coming back. Maybe he was slowly accepting Kate's demise after a long period of denial and he would be eternally grateful to Peter for his steadfast protection. If it hadn't been for the agent, Neal would still be mourning Kate in jail and, in his vulnerable state, it wouldn't have been long before predators would have torn him into shreds.

Speaking of predators... Neal's blue eyes brightened at the sight of Agent Stone's empty, paper-covered desk. It was a nice morning, he was starting to heal from the horrible shock of his beloved's death and he really didn't feel like listening to the man's spiteful comments. Peter had even allowed him to come later at the office and thus, Neal had benefited from an extra and most welcome hour of sleep. He flashed a smile to Rebecca, an agent just recently transferred from Chicago (she smiled back, secretly wishing she weren't married) and then he lowered himself on his office chair before firing up his computer, hoping this week would be quieter than the former.

A few moments later, Peter got out of his office with Jones hot on his heels. The two men walked down the stairs and crossed the Pit in rapid strides to stand over Neal; the young man felt a brief pang of panic at the thought he could be in trouble but the idea was promptly dismissed at the sight of the agents' satisfied smiles.

"Morning, Peter… Hi, Jones!"

"Hey, my man! We have some great news!" said Jones.

"The Anderson case is almost closed, Neal," announced Peter. "Jerome Long, the expert, has confessed to falsifying the medieval painting on behalf of Jack Anderson. He's willing to give us all the details for a reduced sentence, and Diana is on her way to arrest his boss."

"Wow! Has it been difficult to make Long admit what he had done?" asked Neal.

"You're kidding, right?" laughed Jones. "He cracked like an egg during the interview, no fun whatsoever! One cold glare from Diana and he started shaking in his shoes so hard, man, you could think he was suffering from malaria fever. The guy isn't a criminal mastermind, just a poltroon filled with hopes of riches but without the nerves to stick to the plan. Anderson should have hired a better accomplice to justify his claim on the painting!"

"With our counter expertise and Long's confession, we have enough proof to arrest Jack Anderson for fraud, conspiracy and attempted robbery," said Peter. "He'd need a good attorney to get out of this mess but considering the state of his finances, he'll have to content himself with a court-appointed one. Jonathan Anderson's lawyer will make sure his young client will benefit from the painting's insurance to pay for a good institution. There is enough money for Jonathan to spend the rest of his days sheltered from bad treatments and neglect."

Neal beamed at the thought the teenager would live in a safe place, acquire some knowledge and, later, earn a little income to become independent. Peter smiled at Neal's sapphires shining brighter under the harsh neon lights of the office. It was during these moments, when cases were brilliantly solved, that Peter had the confirmation he had done the right thing in pulling the young man out of jail. His friend's intelligence was just too sharp to waste away in a cell and Neal truly enjoyed restoring artworks to their legitimate owners, even after a bit of mischief from his part. The agent had often compared the conman with Peter Pan and Robin Hood but Neal had a third facet to his personality: Don Quixote, the knight-errant lost both in the Mancha and in his imagination, and yet always willing to help the oppressed against tyrants.

"So, it's another victory for the Whitecollarators!" said Neal with one of his irresistible smiles. Jones chuckled lightly and returned to his desk, waiting for Diana's call announcing Jack Anderson's arrest.

"Thanks to you," insisted Peter. "You had a great idea with your theory of new pigments being painted all over the original artwork. Let's hope the restoration won't damage the Anderson painting too much…"

"I could give you the name of a really good restorer…" started Neal, but Peter interrupted him with a shake of his head.

"Sorry, buddy, it has to be a person employed by a Federal agency to follow the official procedure."

"Aw, that's too bad."

"Yes, I'm afraid your friend won't get a contract with the FBI…"

"Actually, Peter, I was talking about me."

The older man blinked at this news: he knew Neal was a very good painter and forger, but he restored paintings as well? Were there any limits to his talents?

"You can repair artworks?"

"Sure! I've read tons of books about it in prison; since my liberation I've been practicing a lot on worn-out paintings I buy for a few coins at the flea market, and June had recently entrusted me in the restoration of a miniature Byron had given her on the occasion of their 15th anniversary. It's kind of nice being able to grant these artworks a second chance in life… It feels similar to rehabilitation, you see?"

Peter's brown gaze slightly clouded over at those words; Neal was still fragile, suffering in silence about Kate but her death had also made the young man face his own mortality in a brutal, violent way. He was also worried about his future. After his four-year deal would be over, what would become of Neal? Chances of earning an honest job were slim, not with his criminal record, and the temptation about returning to the con world was great – especially with Mozzie and his grand plans lurking about. On the other hand, Neal didn't want to disappoint Peter; he knew the Agent had gone above and beyond the call of duty to keep him on line (and out of jail); to quote Elizabeth, he owned Peter and Neal Caffrey was everything but a bad debtor.

Peter laid his hand on the young man's shoulder and squeezed it in a familiar gesture, earning a smile from Neal. From an outside observer it seemed the ex-convict was perfectly relaxed but the agent knew better. However, an FBI office wasn't the right place for a conversation involving Neal's shattered heart and the timing wasn't appropriate, either. Peter took a mental note to invite his friend for dinner, he was certain Elizabeth would accept and she was wonderful in making her guests feel happy. Maybe, in the comfort and the warmth of the Burkes' home, Neal would speak openly about his grief and it would be a step in the right direction of his healing.

"By the way, where's Stone?" asked Neal suddenly.

The sudden change of subject startled Peter: "Huh?"

"Agent Stone; I mean, the Anderson case was his, wasn't it? He must be happy it is solved."

Peter's handsome features hardened at the mention of this man's name. Neal saw the chocolate-colored eyes focusing behind the main entrance's glass doors and he turned about to see what was the trouble but the only persons in the hallway were agents coming and going, talking quietly between themselves or waiting for the elevator to arrive; there was no sign of the absent agent.

"Stone left for the men's room half an hour ago, right after Jones and I have announced Long's confession to the people in the Pit. He still hasn't come out," said Peter.

"What's the matter?" asked Neal, looking genuinely puzzled. "Is he sick?"

"Fat chance! No, he has locked himself inside one of the stalls and he refuses to come out. The official version is that he has a digestion problem but I damn well know he's sulking."

Neal looked incredulously at his friend for a second, and then he busted out laughing as if he had just been told the best joke of the month. It was a good thing he was already seated otherwise he would have literally ROTL, as Internet users liked to write in chat rooms. After a moment Neal calmed down and said:

"Oh, that was a good one! Thanks, I needed it. Come on, Peter, do you want me to believe Stone would have such a puerile attitude?"

"Yes, I want you to believe it because I'm dead serious," answered Burke with an unusual steel-like quality in his voice. "Stone hit the roof after he heard **your** idea lead to the solving of **his** case, and he dumped all his paperwork on his desk like a batch of dirty laundry before leaving for the bathroom in a fury. You can believe I'm going to report his detestable attitude to Hughes!"

Neal sobered up immediately; what he had thought a joke was turning into a more serious matter. The young man didn't have any sympathies for Stone – especially not after the spiteful comments he had to endure last week from the man – but he was still worried about his mere presence causing a schism within the White Collar Unit, prompting people to complain about him and ruining his chances to work alongside Peter.

"I'm sure he'll come back to his senses soon. The Anderson case will look good on his file so let's compromise, okay? You just don't mention my participation in the official report and everybody will conclude it isn't easy to throw dust in the eyes of Agent Stone," said Neal, trying to find a diplomatic solution.

"I'll never do that!" exclaimed Peter. "Giving Stone the credit of solving this case while you have done all the hard work, just to avoid hurting his feelings? It would be dishonest and besides, I have never backed off in front of an adversary."

"He's hardly an adversary; he's one of your colleagues."

"He's a troublesome colleague who had been sloppy at his work for years, way before I've arrested you the first time, and who is now using you being here to justify his hostility not only towards you, but to all his co-workers? No, Neal, that won't do it. Either Stone returns to a better frame of mind or he can find another job."

Neal opened his mouth to argue, and then closed it after seeing Peter's face set in a mask of determination. His friend was not only tenacious like a pit-bull but he also wasn't a coward; Peter had stood against Fowler, the OPR and other bigwigs to defend his favorite consultant, come Hell or rising waters so a co-worker with a grudge didn't stand a chance. Only Elizabeth could succeed in making her husband change his mind but she wasn't around!

The young man nodded in acceptation and Peter gave him a light tap on the shoulder before heading back to his upstairs office. Neal cast one last glance towards the hallway and then he turned his attention towards his computer screen: sixteen new messages had arrived in his e-mailbox and he hoped getting an answer about a complete sheet of Penny Black stamps missing from a collection worth millions of dollars.

* * *

><p>After a few hours of intense research, comparison and analysis, Neal felt the need to go to the bathroom. He had completely forgotten the whole matter about Stone after he had hit a snag about finding the whereabouts of that sheet of one-penny stamps all bearing the profile of Queen Victoria. The Penny Black, launched on May 6, 1840 was the world's first adhesive postage stamp designed for a public system of mail distribution; the proud owner of this rare sheet had been devastated by its disappearance and he was certain the culprit was a member of his family, since he had invested all his fortune in his stamp collection, leaving only breadcrumbs to his relatives. Neal considered this theory to be too simple and he was certain something else was going on, even though he couldn't put his finger on it for the moment.<p>

He left his desk and flung open the entrance door of the White Collar Crime Unit to walk down the hallway leading to the bathrooms. Like in all federal buildings and as a security measure, the restrooms' doors had an electronic lock that could be opened only by using swipe cards, which were granted only to agents and maintenance personnel. Neal fished his card out of his pants pocket and swiped it with an elegant gesture through the lecture device. It beeped before its tiny light turned from red to green, and Neal opened the bathroom's door.

A lifetime of cons had taught the young man to always take a quick look around when entering a room and Mozzie had told him time and time again to always be on his guard after learning Neal was working for the FBI. _"__You __can__'__t __be __too __careful, __man. __I __am __ready __to __bet __the__ "__federales__"__ are __spying __on __one __another __after __they __are __through __spying __on __us, __and __their __bathrooms __must __be __loaded __with __mikes __and __cameras __to __get __some __extra __gossip.__"_ Neal had laughed at his friend's overactive imagination but he nonetheless followed Mozzie's instructions, mostly because he tried to avoid meeting a person disagreeing with his presence within the building. But the bathroom was empty; there was nobody on sight and not a noise could be heard apart from the faint electric buzzing of the lamps. The floor and wall tiles were immaculate as they had been recently scrubbed with bleach, considering the acrid smell still perceptible in the air.

Neal spotted the linear array of urinals and took care of his business. After he was done, he went to the row of wash basins and soaped his hands thoroughly (the late Mrs. Caffrey, his mother, had not raised a pig) before putting them under a flow of hot water. The last remnants of soap disappeared in the drain and Neal hit the "Start" button of the hand-dryer using his elbow. The device roared back to life and the young man quickly placed his hands under the rush of air. Within a minute, they were dry and Neal glanced at the mirror to make sure his appearance was neat (_"__Image __was __everything__"_, like he had once told Mozzie).

Suddenly, he spotted a moving shadow behind his reflection. Instantly on the alert, Neal turned about and cringed as he realized it was Stone. Obviously alerted by the noise of the hand-dryer, the agent had left his toilet stall to check out who was using the bathroom and, considering the expression on his face, Stone wasn't happy to see the ex-convict here.

"Pet...", hissed Stone, his gray eyes getting darker by the second.

"Listen, Stone..."

"No! You listen to **me**, you little creep!" yelled the agent while grabbing Neal by the front of his shirt. The young man raised his hands in surrender – he abhorred violence and he certainly didn't want to be accused of any wrongdoings inside a FBI building – however, his gesture didn't seem to calm Stone down, quite the contrary! He started to shake Neal until his perfectly white teeth rattle while his shirt was great danger of being torn to shreds.

"You're a bastard; do you hear me, Caffrey? A low-life bastard and nothing else; can't you break your neck in the gutter and die there? No, you have to show off your ass in the FBI and make us all look like fools. Well, guess what? You make me want to puke every time you parade around in your expensive suits; and that mansion you live! You think you're better than us because you parasite in a palace, don't you? But everybody knows you pay your landlady in nature, gigolo! As if a thief like you could actually afford such a place! I know damn well your assets have been seized after Burke arrested you for bound forgery. And you're probably screwing the maid in the kitchen so she'll do your laundry! That's where that big mouth of yours comes in on handy, right? Disgusting liar, scum, hustler! You may have blinded the other idiots of the squad but I can see right through you!"

"You're wrong!" exclaimed Neal, revolted by the accusations. "I pay $700 per month for the room and Naomi doesn't do my cleaning. And I am here to help Peter in solving cases; all the other agents benefit from my input, including you!"

"Shut up, you rat!" yelled Stone, slamming Neal hard against the wall tiles. "I don't need your help; I don't want your help! I'd rather eat dirt than ask for your help! You think you have made buddy-buddy with everyone around here, do you? Well, here's a newsflash: I have lots of friends who can't stand the sight of you. They all think Burke has made a terrible mistake and they are counting the days before you are sent back to the slammer with our regards. They all laughed after your arrest for the pink diamond heist, but you had to go and be clever and have Agent Fowler arrested instead! A good man, with a perfect record, now rotting in jail thanks to your lies! You think you can destroy my chances of promotion and none would be the wiser, eh? Well, I'll show you!"

"Promotion? What promotion?"

Suddenly aware he had said too much, Stone roared like a wounded bear and slammed Neal against the wall again. The agent's face was turning purple like a beetroot and saliva was spraying out of his mouth like a fountain, giving a very poor example of professionalism.

"YOU DARE ANSWERING BACK TO ME? I'LL SHOW YOU WHO'S BOSS! I'LL DESTROY YOU AND EVERYTHING YOU STAND FOR, SNITCH! BUT I WON'T LET YOU DESTROY BURKE WITH YOUR LIES, SLIMY SLUG! YOU'RE A RAT AND A WEAKLING, UNWORTHY OF ANYTHING BUT PRISON AND YOU DON'T DESERVE TO BE IN THE SAME PLACE WITH BURKE!"

"**Peter ****and ****I ****are ****none ****of ****your ****concern!****"** yelled Neal back, shoving Stone away from him. He was surprised by his own boldness since he detested physical confrontation and had always relied on his brains to get out of any dangerous situation, but Stone had crossed the line after he had mentioned Peter. Over the years, the young man had felt a great amount of respect towards his handler and after he had began to work for the FBI this sentiment had evolved into real affection. Neal was deeply resolute to protect Peter and he considered their deal to be no one else's business but their own.

But the conman knew the odds weren't in his favor. Stone had combat training and the law on his side, while Neal had neither. Also, his occipital bone was beginning to hurt after being repetitively banged against the wall and it was urgent to find a way out before Stone would completely lose it. He looked completely bewildered after Caffrey had pushed him away but it would be a matter of seconds before things would get ugly.

"Look, Stone, just let bygones be bygones; I'll stay out of your way and no-one gets into trouble, okay?"

"BASTARD!" roared Stone, rising his fist to slam it in Neal's face. The striking blow flew across the air...

... Neal ducked at the last second...

... And Stone's fist hit the wall in full force.

**CRACK.**

"AAAAAHHHOOOOOWWWWW!"

The agent cried out in pain, his left hand cradling the fingers of his right's, his face changing from purple to ghastly white. Neal winced at the sight of the wall's tile falling on the floor in broken shards. Considering the damage on the ceramic, Stone must have felt quite an impact on his phalanxes!

At the same moment, the bathroom's door opened and Agent Price came in; Neal let out a discreet sigh of relief: the man was a member of Peter's elite and, so far, he had never showed any hostility towards him.

"What's going on here?" asked red-haired Price, his turquoise eyes widening at the scene displayed in front of him: at one corner, Sullen Stone jumping up and down while holding his right hand and moaning "Owowowowow"; at the opposite corner, Caffrey tidying up his shirt and apparently looking upset.

"What's the matter, Caffrey?" asked Price with a kind voice. Although he had felt awkward in the beginning at the thought of having to work with an ex-convict, Price had soon revised his judgment after witnessing Neal's prowess during undercover jobs. He would never forget the case where Caffrey had been locked inside a giant safe with Burke, with no air to breathe and felons in ambush at the door. Caffrey had sacrificed himself to give Burke their unique way to survive the air vacuum, thus almost suffocating to death in the process. In the end everything had turned out fine and Neal had unknowingly earned Price's silent admiration.

"Er... Stone hurt his hand."

"In a bathroom? How did it happen?"

Neal looked down, a bit embarrassed by the turn of events. Even though he was secretly grateful for Price's presence, he couldn't tell exactly what had happened; but Price was a good agent and it wouldn't be long before he would start to ask questions so Neal had to think fast and invent a story real quick.

"Well... He banged it against the hand-dryer because it wouldn't start."

"Oh, let me see..." said Price, moving towards the injured agent but Stone recoiled violently, interrupting his litany of "Ows" to yell like a maniac:

"GET AWAY FROM ME, CARROT-HEAD!"

Price was an affable man, mild-mannered and always ready to help, but among the things he couldn't stand were derogatory remarks about his hair color. He had been relentlessly bullied about it during his childhood and as a teenager; even though years of hard work at the FBI had made him earn a lot of white strands, he was still touchy about the subject of his hair and Stone was going to learn that fact the hard way very soon.

"Fine! You can stay in there and moan for all I care! I won't help you go to the infirmary."

Price's outburst surprised Stone; he wouldn't have thought the redhead had it in him to dare yelling back at him. Of course, Price had taken advantage of his wounded state and he was refusing to assist him while he was suffering thanks to Caffrey. Another one to add to his secret list of enemies and Stone silently vowed to make Price pay for his insolence, until a new wave of pain interrupted his train of thoughts. He would get the flame-haired agent; it was just a matter of time!

"C'mon, Caffrey, let's get out of here," said Price, his turquoise eyes glaring at the agent growling in the corner. "I'll use the lower floor's bathroom!"

Price turned around and in the movement his shoe accidentally kicked away a shard of tile lying on the floor. He looked down, surprised, but Neal grabbed him by the arm and led them both out of the bathroom. The sooner they would get out of here, the less chance there would be for Price to make the relation between a broken tile and broken fingers belonging to the most difficult, arrogant and belligerent man the FBI had among its members.

TBC...


	8. The onyx eyed lady

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- "_Persona __non __grata__"_ means "An unwelcome person" in Latin.

- This chapter is dedicated to JeanneZ84!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8: the onyx-eyed lady<strong>

Neal was a bit nervous about going back to work at the Unit. Not that he feared Stone would quarrel with him again – considering the way the agent had damaged his hand against the wall, it would take hours before he could come back to his desk – but he knew the incident would reach Peter's ears. Agent Price had a good head on his shoulders and he had accidentally kicked at the ceramic debris lying on the bathroom's floor; considering Stone's temper and Neal's distaste for violence, it wouldn't take long before Price would reach the only logical conclusion. The question was, how long would it take before Price talked to Peter about it?

Neal glanced at the upstairs' offices but Peter was nowhere in sight; after Stone had his 'accident', he left the building to get medical treatment and he had called the office on his way to the doctor to inform about his absence, without giving a lot of details. Jones had immediately stepped up to help Diana with the interview of Jack Anderson, while Peter was caught up in a meeting in the conference room with Hughes and other directors that would last for hours. So far, no one had asked questions about Stone's brusque departure; in fact, Neal was ready to bet the other agents were somewhat relieved at the thought their troublemaking colleague would be away for hours. With the day's heavy load of work, maybe there was a slim chance remaining that Price would be buried in files and forget about the whole thing.

Neal turned towards Price's desk and he was surprised to see the agent's turquoise-colored eyes looking straight at him; the young man instantly answered with a smile, trying to look completely unconcerned by Stone's recent attack but Price just nodded before focusing his attention back on his computer's screen. Neal let out a sigh: no, Price didn't seem the kind to overlook an incident. Sooner or later he would report it to Peter but the ex-convict hoped for a very long length of time before it would happen. Otherwise, it could compromise everything...

"Neal?"

He snapped out of his reverie and saw Agent Diana Berrigan standing right in front of his desk. Lots of people could get easily fooled by her slim silhouette and her delicate features, but the Neal knew better; Diana's sculptural beauty was a great disguise to hide her sharp mind and experience on the field. Too many felons had thought she would be an easy one to overpower and they were all sitting in jail, some of them still nursing the bruises Diana had given them. She was a great professional, dutifully following Peter's footsteps and Neal knew she wanted to prove she had earned her place in the FBI fair and square, not because her father had a high position in the American government. She even had given up on a good job at D.C. out of loyalty for Peter, even if it had caused troubles with her girlfriend Christie. Some narrow-minded persons had grumbled about having a lesbian among their midst but Neal had jokingly dismissed the grumblers as being merely disappointed at the thought they would never have a chance to date the beautiful woman.

"Hey, Diana."

"Hi. Are you all right?" asked the woman, her black onyx eyes locked on the conman. She was obviously worried about Neal being so lost in his thoughts lately and the young man mentally kicked himself for his temporary lack of self-control.

"I'm fine. So, is Jack Anderson still in one piece after you've interrogated him, or is Jones calling 911 to ask for paramedics to pick up the bloodied remnants?" asked Neal, trying to make small talk.

Diana had a smile at the recollection of Anderson's interview; the man had entered the interrogation room proud like a peacock and he had come out a drenched rat. Diana had inwardly rejoiced at the sight of this rapid decomposition; she couldn't feel any sympathy towards a man who had planned to pay his gambling debts and start anew at the detriment of his mentally deficient nephew, dooming the teenager to a life of misery while Anderson would have enjoyed the high-rolling lifestyle in the Bahamas. Diana had made it clear the suspect would feel the full wrath of the White Collar Unit and nothing would change that fact. Anderson had flirted, protested, yelled, cried and begged during the whole time of his interview, but all in vain: Die-Hard Diana was simply unstoppable!

"He's still alive, don't worry. And I am glad this case is solved, so Jonathan Anderson will finally get the insurance money. It's at times like this where I feel we are truly making a difference."

"I'll bet you do," said Neal with a smile. "You're not a diplomat's daughter for nothing. Belligerents don't stand a chance against you!"

The woman laughed at those words and Neal seized the occasion to grab her hand and place a kiss on the dorsal, very old-fashioned like. Diana answered this mark of courtesy with a smile, and then her expression turned serious again.

"Neal, you know you can talk to me anytime, right? I mean, if something bothers you, my door's always open. And you can call me whenever you need to, including the weekend!"

The conman's blue eyed clouded slightly; he knew Diana was referring to the explosion. The members of the Unit may not have expressed it out loud but they all had been horrified hearing the terrible news, and even worse after realizing their favorite consultant had nearly become a victim of the bombing if it hadn't been for guardian-angel Burke. It had been a close call and lots of agents were wondering who could have been the mastermind behind this conspiracy that had killed two persons, a female thief and a pilot.

Acting as herald of the Harvard Squad, Diana had presented to Peter a request for Neal to attend counseling sessions. Peter had appreciated his team's concern but asking for professional help was impossible: the single mention about Neal not being able to work would earn the young man a one-way ticket for prison, on the grounds that he would be too unstable to be useful to the FBI. It revolted Peter that some of his superiors considered his partner as a mere tool, but he also knew those same persons disliked the idea of having Neal within the office's walls and would jump on any occasion to get rid of him. Why would they care about the death of Kate Moreau, anyway? She was only Caffrey's unreliable accomplice – and Philip Martins, the pilot, was collateral damages. Paying a psychiatrist's fees just to help a criminal overcome his grief? No way! For the bigwigs, a broken tool should be removed and dumped, end of story. This situation had made Peter's team members grind their teeth in frustration but they knew it couldn't be changed, so they had took it up upon themselves to bring moral support to a brilliant and suffering thief. Diana had always steadfastly supported Neal, and not only out of loyalty for Peter: she recognized a good man when she saw it.

"Thank you for your offer, Diana," said Neal sincerely. He would have laughed out loud a few months ago if anyone had told him he would be 'adopted' by a honest FBI agent and his incorruptible team, but it had happened nonetheless. "_Strange __karma_", like Mozzie would say, but it was Neal's and in a strange, incredible way, he liked it.

"Just don't hesitate, okay?"

"I won't, and you are a great lady."

Diana gently tapped Neal's cheek in an affectionate gesture and then she left to type her report about Jack Anderson's interview. Price, who had overheard their conversation, couldn't help but smile: trust Caffrey to charm a woman who usually never paid any attention to men. The young man should be named a weapon of massive seduction! But the agent's expression turned serious after he spotted Stone's empty desk, and the recollection of the scene he had assisted to at the bathroom came back to his mind.

Yes, there was someone at the White Collar Unit who was notoriously immune to the Caffrey charm. A man with a grudge…

* * *

><p>The day flew by and there was still no sign of Peter. Neal had spent the morning doing researches about the missing sheet of Black Penny stamps. He had lunch with Jones and Diana; while munching on sandwiches, they had talked about weekends, movies, books and how they would spend their next two days of freedom – provided they wouldn't be on stakeout duty, of course. The afternoon had gone smoothly until around four o'clock, after Stone had come back to the office with three of his fingers immobilized by splints and a decidedly furious look on his face. No one inquired about his absence or his obviously injured right hand, his colleagues contenting themselves with exchanging interrogative glances while the most indifferent ones just shrugged the matter off.<p>

Neal had cautiously remained silent behind his computer's screen after he had seen his attacker pushing open the door of the Unit and sitting down heavily on his chair, jaw clenched so hard his teeth were in danger of shattering in a million pieces. In truth, Stone looked ready to commit murder; only his injuries – and the audience in the Pit – were stopping him from jumping at the delicate throat of a notorious con man. Neal's blue eyes darkened slightly at the thought he would be blamed for something he hadn't done. It wouldn't be the first time and certainly not the last, but there was a world of difference between being accused of stealing a few baubles and raising his hand against a FBI agent. Good thing Neal's dislike of violence was a well-known fact, it could speak in his favor.

"_Tough __day __at __the __office,__"_ thought Neal. He looked in the direction of the upstairs offices for the hundredth time since Stone's attack and Peter was still not back from his meeting. For the life of him, Neal couldn't imagine what could make people stay inside a conference room for hours, drinking bad coffee and exchanging ideas going nowhere. Why hadn't he been invited to the meeting? He would have brought along a thermos filled with June's roasted Italian coffee and he would have found the solution in a snap! But deep down he knew why his presence hadn't been requested: an ex-convict was _persona __non __grata_ in meetings involving bigwigs. It was bound to happen, of course, and Neal didn't feel any resentment about the situation but he didn't like being separated from Peter for too long.

"Hey, pet!" hissed a voice nearby. Neal looked up and saw Stone standing right in front of his desk. Damn it, he had let his guard down and his nemesis had seized the occasion to invade his personal space…

"Yes?" asked the alleged forger, trying to act nonchalant.

"You're scum, do you hear me?"

Neal shuddered slightly from the amount of hatred in Stone's voice, and yet his face betrayed nothing of his emotions. He had faced many foes during his criminal career, braved great dangers since the beginning of his cooperation with the FBI and even had a few guns waved in front of him by people resolute to use them. He had learned a long time ago to maintain a perfect 'poker face' but he also knew that humor did wonders in disconcerting adversaries. He chose this strategy in the hopes it would keep Stone at a safe distance.

"Thank you! It's nice to receive some feedback from your co-workers," said Neal with one of his winning smiles, his sapphire eyes looking unblinkingly at the agent.

"What?" exclaimed Stone, looking completely baffled.

"I appreciate your appreciation, trust me!"

"What the Hell are you talking about?"

"It's good spirit like this that makes great teamwork," continued the ex-convict imperturbably.

"You're not part of the team! You'll never be part of our team! You are just a pet thinking too highly of yourself and making fun of us!"

"Thanks for your words of praise. I think you're a real professional, too!"

"You think I'm out of the game, eh, bastard? You think I am done for because of three broken fingers, don't you, low-life snitch? Well, you're on for a big surprise! I will prove your treachery to every dumb head of this dump. Burke will curse the day he has ever accepted to pull you out of jail and your lies won't save you this time, whoreson. I hope the prisoners will dismember you alive after they have taken turns in raping your ass!"

"You are right, Stone: human qualities are as important as professional training in a FBI career."

"Little creep!"

"I mean, an agent must always be the living embodiment of law-abiding, competence and impartiality, right? That's just like your description."

"Why, you…"

"What's going on here?" interrupted a female voice, and the two men turned around to see it was Diana; her arms were folded across her chest and she was looking at them with a severe frown, like she didn't enjoy what she was seeing and the situation would be corrected with painful consequences.

"Mind your own business, Berrigan!" growled Stone. He hoped to be impressive in his supposed righteous anger but the woman just smiled with the coldness of a metallic blade, just before answering with a steel-like quality in voice:

"I can add another broken finger to your collection, Stone."

The agent made a face as if he had just bitten in a lemon fruit; damnit, that had been a clumsy move from his part! Berrigan was not only one of Burke's favorite, she was also one of these women who could do anything better than men – including physical confrontation. Even without a damaged hand, Stone knew he didn't stand a chance against Diana and the scandal of an altercation would compromise more his chances to become Burke's partner. Caffrey had already done a marvelous job sabotaging Stone's secret goal and he was a difficult enough foe to deal with, no need to add Berrigan in the equation.

"Er… Sorry, Berrigan. My hand hurts, you see?" said Stone, trying to play the sympathy card.

"Then why don't you go home?" asked Diana sharply. Judging by her tone, she hadn't been impressed by her colleague's liar poker game.

"I… Well, I have paperwork to do."

Diana glanced at the agent's desk and her frown deepened; the pile of papers was a disgrace to the Bureau's work policy and, knowing lazybones Stone, she knew he would pretext his damaged hand to pass the buck to his colleagues. He was especially keen on targeting women or newcomers because he wrongly thought they were more impressionable. Barbara had told her once about the time when the man had tried to bully her into typing his reports on the grounds that she should be his secretary instead of the Director's, a statement Diana had thought ludicrous.

"So?" asked the dark-skinned woman.

"Well, I thought… Caffrey is here to help, no? He could do my paperwork instead of idling all day…"

But Stone's attempt was cut short when Diana interrupted him with a no-nonsense tone: "Forget it! Neal is not going to do your work on top of his."

"Look, Diana," interjected Neal, "maybe I could…"

"No, Neal, and that's final! Stone, if you can't do your job, you must go to Human Resources and ask for a sick leave. But by no means are you going to use your injury as excuse to dump your workload on Caffrey. Nobody here has been designated as your personal slave, do you hear me? And we all know you have been procrastinating for weeks about the Anderson case so you'd better watch it because if I see Caffrey slaving away on your paperwork, I won't hesitate to tell Burke at once. Got it?"

Diana's dark eyes were shining with barely-contained anger and, with her no-nonsense reputation, there could be no doubts she would be true to her word. Stone mumbled something lame about him just making a joke before retreating to his desk with his tail between his legs. Neal quickly glanced around but, apparently, no other agents seemed to have been aware of their conversation. The Pit was buzzing like an overturned beehive as usual and the young man gave a silent prayer of thanks to the inventors of phones and computers for the great distracting power of their genius-issued gadgets. The last he wanted for the moment was a full audience of Stone's animosity towards him. It was bad enough Price and Diana had been witnesses of it!

"You alright, Neal?" asked Diana once she was certain Stone wouldn't move from his office chair.

Neal turned his pair of sapphires towards the woman and said: "Diana, you are indeed a great lady."

It took every ounce of self-control Berrigan possessed to go back to her files without blushing like a pleased schoolgirl.

* * *

><p>It was 6:30 p.m. and Neal wondered when he would be allowed to go home. Peter had finally gotten out of his meeting an hour ago but he had went straight to his office to write down notes, meaning Neal hadn't had a chance to talk to him. The other members of the Harvard Squad were slowly leaving the Pit, either in groups or individually; Price had went home too, catching a ride in the elevator's cabin with Jones and Taylor, leaving behind a conman who had been worried all day about the red-haired agent talking to Peter about a certain incident in the men's bathroom. But obviously Price had forgotten about it and, with a little luck, the damaged tile would be repaired quickly, thus erasing the souvenir of Stone's attack. As for Diana, she had left the office quickly because she had been in a hurry to have dinner at a Chinese restaurant with Christie, so she would have other things in mind than talking about her work.<p>

Stone had also left a while ago, without trying to tidy up his desk. Doubtless he had went to the HR department and gotten his sick leave. Neal frowned at the thought it would become more difficult to watch the man's comings and goings; maybe he would have to ask for Mozzie's help, even though the little man would be horrified to spy on a Suit who wasn't Burke. Mozzie's hobby was to gather information about people but doing researches on the Internet was one thing; secretly following an FBI agent all day was another!

Neal sighed and rubbed at his eyes; the tension he had lived in all day was taking its toll on him and he longed for a quiet evening in his room at June's. The rest he had benefited from during the weekend had vanished, replaced by fatigue. He hadn't felt at his top since Kate's death and he knew it would take a long time before he could return to his former self again… provided it was ever possible, after having lost the person who had mattered to him more than his life. But Neal couldn't let anything slow him down for the moment; too much was at stake…

A hand suddenly landed on his shoulder.

"Neal?"

"Oh! Hi, Peter. Finally out of that big box you call an office?"

"Yes, and it's time to go home. Everything's okay?"

"Well, I have a good guess about who is behind the theft of the Black Penny stamp sheet. All I need is a confirmation from a contact I have in London but, with the time difference, I probably won't have the answer before tomorrow."

"Who do you think has stolen the Black Penny sheet?"

"Its owner, Mr. Walter Caulfield."

"What?"

"Sure, it's a common insurance swindle. A precious item is missing, the desperate owner bays at the moon while pointing an accusing finger at his relatives and while the police and FBI waste their time interrogating suspects, the said precious item is stashed in a safe place. After a long investigation the law enforcement officers throw the towel and the insurance company has no other choice than to pay. Mr. Caulfield gets a nice amount of cash, allowing him to buy more stamps for his collection, for example in an auction at Christie's."

"And your contact in London can give you information about this?"

"Yes. Some auctions are kept very hush-hush because of the competition but I happen to know Mr. Caulfield has recently bought a plane ticket for London and he has a reservation in a hotel located on King's Street, close to Christie's main salesroom; he should be more cautious when he makes reservations on the Internet! Anyway, all I need is proof that an auction involving rare stamps will be held in Christie's soon; then we'll give Mr. Caulfield the news that the investigation will last much longer than planned. He'll hit the roof at the thought he could miss the auction at Christie's and then a carefully-planned sting brainstormed by our fine Unit will do the trick in exposing him."

"Good work, Neal," said Peter, clasping lightly the muscled shoulder under his hand. "Now let's get out of here before Hughes calls for another boring-to-tears meeting. By the way, is what I've heard true?"

The conman felt his heart twist in his chest after hearing the question: was Peter talking about Stone and the fight in the bathroom?

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on, Neal! You must know about Stone breaking his fingers against the hand-dryer in the men's room. Apparently, he had lost his temper and banged it because it wouldn't work."

"Er… Yes, I've heard about it," said the younger man, inwardly relieved the line he had fed Price had become the official version of the story. "Kind of silly, isn't it?"

"Yes, well, the man isn't known for his nerves of steel. Now he has three broken fingers and he'll be more useless than usual; what is annoying is that the Anderson case will be delayed because Stone will be on sick leave and he has botched his work for weeks."

"I could do it, Peter. Jonathan Anderson can't wait until Stone's return, otherwise he'll be thrown in a low-grade institution before the matter is sorted; I can tidy up the paperwork and imitate Stone's signature at the bottom of the forms. You'll just have to give your approval before I send the file to Anderson's attorney."

"You'll do this, Neal?" asked Peter, pleasantly surprised. His C.I. was already drowning in work and Peter feared his friend would overexert himself in a vain attempt to forget about Kate and her terrible fate. Burning the candle by both ends would only lead to a nervous breakdown and the very idea of being forced to send a frail Neal back to maximum-security revolted Peter's chivalrous nature. But a smile from the ex-convict erased his worries: the kid had such a bright intelligence he could easily handle different cases at the same time. His picture should be printed in the dictionary, next to the definition of the word "multi-tasking".

"Yes, I can do it," answered Neal, earning a _'__Proud __Papa__'_ grin from his handler. Noting the hand still on his shoulder, Neal intertwined his fingers with Peter's, securing the older man's affectionate hold on him.

Peter looked down at their hands and squeezed; a pressure answered him back - tightly.

TBC…


	9. The jet eyed Juno

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- A chapter a bit shorter this week, but bear with me: I'm celebrating my birthday on Sunday!

- Juno was an Ancient Roman goddess, wife and sister of Jupiter. She was the goddess of marriage and usually considered as the Queen of gods and humans (from Wikipedia).

- June's last name is not mentioned in the show, so I named her Arbogast from Roman general Flavius Arbogastes (d. 394). My contribution to the White Collar universe, folks!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9: the jet-eyed Juno<strong>

The next day saw a fuming Stone was on the lookout in his dark blue Cadillac, which was double-parked in front of June's mansion. He had spent the whole night elaborating plans of revenge against Neal and his painful hand had fueled his hate towards the young man to the maximum. Caffrey was a goner; he had made a fool out of Stone one time too many and it called for payback. No one could mess with the best FBI agent the world has ever seen and get away with it. t Caffrey had probably heard of Stone's ambition to become Burke's "real" partner from a waggling tongue at the office – here too, there would be Hell to pay – and, in order to spare his delicate ass the harshness of a prison cell, the little bastard had launched a sabotage plan to prevent the "Burke and Buck" duo to form. Well, he would see another thing coming!

To be truthful, Stone was also angry at himself: he had wasted time with subtleties whereas a direct action would have dealt with Caffrey a long time ago. The planting of the money and the watch, the destruction of the Pippin file, nothing had worked and even physical intimidation had only resulted in three broken fingers. Caffrey must have signed a parchment with his blood to be so lucky but soon the Devil would reap his soul, with a little nudge from Agent Stone.

Because this time, the mean to send his foe in Hell would be simple and very efficient: a bullet in the brain, no less!

Of course, Stone would have to do the job himself: hiring the services of a hitman was quite out the question because of the fee and the risk of blackmail. Then again, he didn't need a professional for such an easy task: just lie in wait in front of the wealthy widow's house and, as soon as Caffrey would arrive, just shot him and get out of the crime scene on burning rubber. The inquiry would be short: one look at Caffrey's record and the police would automatically conclude the thief had been caught up by his past. Considering the number of people he had fooled, it would be easy to imagine one of them had wanted revenge and executed him in a drive-by shooting. Sure, Caffrey's death would make a bit of fuss at the White Collar Crime Unit: Burke would rant and rave, point an accusing finger at the long list of the con man's victims and ask about a thousand times how such a thing could have happened. But Stone was convinced it would be only a façade; deep down, Burke could only be relieved his dangerous deal with the rat was finally over. Caffrey was more trouble than he was worth and his ridiculous contribution to the Unit would be quickly forgotten. That piece of street trash would be buried within a week, erased from the FBI files in two, and no one would even remember his name in a month. Stone's fingers would be healed by then and he would take his rightful place next to Burke.

The agent grimaced a bit as the pain of his right hand awakened; driving a car with broken fingers had been quite a challenge; early in the morning he had to buy an untraceable .38 from a low-life scum, since Stone couldn't risk shooting Caffrey with his service gun. His animosity towards the pet was well-known and some nosey-parkers like tin soldier Jones or bothersome Berrigan could dare considering him as a suspect. As soon as the deed would be done, the .38 would end at the bottom of the Hudson, never to be heard about again. Stone had also taken the precaution to change his car's license plate: years ago, one belonging to a stolen vehicle had fallen in his lap and he had kept it ever since in his garage, thinking it would come in on handy one day – and he had been right! He had bought at the Salvation Army a shabby hooded sweatshirt and an oversized glove to hide the splints. That way, even if witnesses spotted him firing at the ex-convict, they would only see a shadow in a car without any striking details and a license plate number that didn't match his car's model. The perfect crime!

The worst part had been removing the splint on his forefinger, but Stone held a gun with his right hand and he needed to pull a trigger with complete freedom of movement. The finger was hurting terribly and Stone was furious at all the discomfort he had suffered since the beginning of the day; he shivered lightly at the recollection of having dealt with a snickering gun dealer, and then buying clothes in a place stinking of smelly beggars for his plan to come to fruition. Stone felt somehow insulted: a federal agent of his stature shouldn't compromise himself with the dregs of society to get rid of a pest but he truly didn't have any choice. His colleagues were idiots and Burke had been blinded by Caffrey so hard, it was a wonder he didn't walk around using a white cane. Fortunately, it would end soon: one bullet, one dead body on the sidewalk, and the path to promotion would be finally cleared.

Stone's cell phone rang, and the man picked it up with a curse. He swore even louder after the screen announced the call was from Linda. Damn stupid bitch, she truly had a knack to phone him at the worst moment!

"What?" barked Stone after hitting the "Answer" button.

"_Barnaby, we have to talk," _said his wife with a high-pitched, stressed voice.

"Well, maybe I don't want to talk to you! Ever thought of that?"

"_Barnaby, your attitude has been unbearable for weeks. You yell at me, you frighten the kids, you spend all your time at the office and you have broken your fingers doing Lord knows what. What in the world is the matter with you?"_

"I'm working! Doing important things! Of course, a lamebrain like you can't understand the concept of having a job to do!"

"_And now you're insulting me!"_

"Why shouldn't I? You have done nothing worthy so far, too busy stuffing yourself with chips or gossiping with your stupid friends in the kitchen. Did you think I would support you for the rest of your life, haven't you? Well, you were wrong! Either you earn your keep or you can hit the road. Your free-loading days are over!"

"_How dare you! I raise our two children while you are away all day!"_

"Yeah, right. As if watching over two cockroaches would take a lot of time. That's not real work! I'm doing real work! I'm solving high-profile cases while you remain glued in front of the TV no matter what's on. You can't even keep the house tidy or make the brats shut their mouths when I'm home."

"_You have quite a nerve! For your information, our house is spotless; Kevin and Jimmy hide in their room as soon as you arrive because they are too afraid of you to dare making a noise. They are sick with fear and at their wits' ends to find a way to please you. You're always criticizing them, saying they are useless and boasting how you were star student at your school and a wonderful athlete. You were neither, you liar! I've just had a very interesting talk with your father and he told me about your delusions of grandeur, always blaming the others for your shortcomings. No wonder you are estranged with him!"_

"I'm an FBI agent!"

"_You graduated at the bottom of your class and you do nothing but push paper all day along. Your superiors don't trust you on the field and your co-workers can't stand the sight of you!"_

"Shut up!"

"_No! I won't let you tyrannize the kids because you are incapable of getting your head out of your navel. It's over, Barnaby, do you hear me? I'm taking Kevin and Jimmy and from this moment, you'll talk to me only through my lawyer. Mom will have us at her place until I find a job. Since we are never good enough, we'll leave you alone with the person you love the most, namely yourself."_

"Good riddance!" yelled Stone before hanging up and throwing his phone across his car. The aggressive gesture made the calling device bounce against a window before falling on the passenger's seaet. Linda, that worthless bitch! How could she dare bothering him with her whines right at his moment of triumph? And asking for a divorce so she could drain him of his money until the brats turned eighteen, no less! Stone had a nasty laugh, certain the judge would be so impressed by the agent's reputation he'd grant only a pittance to Linda. Maybe Stone could ask for a restraining order, as well…

_Oh, damnit!_

Lost in his scenarios of matrimonial revenge, Stone had let his attention wander and he had almost missed Caffrey getting out of the house, his long silhouette walking down the entrance's stairs. As usual, the young man was dressed to the nines in an elegant suit, beautiful tie, shiny shoes and the Fedora hat was proudly worn on his head. Caffrey looked every inch like a fashion model instead of an ex-convict and Stone felt the hate turn the acid of his stomach into molten lava. Overconfident, cheeky, insufferable little bastard, his insolence couldn't be left unpunished!

Neal reached the last step and turned to walk down the street, his back to the double-parked car. That was good since Stone would rather not see Caffrey's face after it would explode from the gunshot. The agent cursed as he realized he hadn't readied the .38. The gun's recoil would send a terrible pain in his broken fingers but it was a small price to pay. He tried to settle the weapon on his wounded hand but the remaining splints hidden beneath the glove made his movements clumsy. Panicking at the thought his prey would be out of range within seconds, Stone cursed again and tried to force the .38 in his stiff fingers, resulting only in making the weapon fall on the car's floor, between his feet. The agent yelled in frustration but, before he could bend over to retrieve it, somebody slammed his right hand against the wheel while his left ear was violently clipped!

"Who are you?" asked a female voice.

Stone cried out in pain but also in surprise; his attacker was a fifty-something, chocolate-skinned woman with hair done in an impeccable brushing and clothes attesting of her wealth. The loop handle of a leather leash had been secured on her right wrist and, considering the barking heard close to Stone's car, a dog was attached to the other end. She looked like she belonged perfectly in a party held by a member of New York's jet society but her severe frown and the iron-like grip she had on his right wrist betrayed someone who perfectly knew how to handle an adversary in any given circumstance.

"I repeat, who are you?" asked the woman again. For the outside eye, she looked perfectly calm and collected but her jet-black eyes were shining in barely contained anger. Her grip on the wrist tightened even more, threatening to break a few more bones and it felt like she was resolved in ripping the ear off the head. She looked as formidable as the goddess Juno and obviously not the kind to be scared off by a few insults or a badge, Stone's usual weapons of choice for intimidating women.

"Let me go!" squeaked the agent, horrified by the fact he was being manhandled by a lady old enough to be his mother. In the meantime, Caffrey kept on walking down the street in long strides in the general direction of the FBI building, completely oblivious of the situation developing behind him.

"You'd better answer my question if you value your ear and your wrist, young man! Byron has taught me years ago the points to press on a human body to inflict pain, and I have never forgotten his lessons. Now tell me who you are, you stalker!"

"What?" exclaimed Stone, trying to shake his head back and forth in a vain attempt to make his assailant lose her hold. "What do you mean? I wasn't stalking anyone!"

"Who are you trying to fool? For your information, discretion isn't your _forte_; I have spotted your car ten minutes ago, while I was walking Bugsy around the block! Now, unless you want to lose some body parts, I'd suggest you to answer right now!" said the woman, adding a bit of pressure on the ear and the wrist to emphasize her words. Her dog was starting to bark loudly, attracting the attention of a few passersby.

Stone was in full panic mode; Caffrey had disappeared behind a street corner, the hit was ruined and he was being mistreated by a crazy rich witch! His first impulse was to yell out that he was an FBI agent and he could have her arrested for assault but he changed his mind in a second: identifying himself as a Fed would invariably lead to embarrassing questions, like where was his warrant allowing him to spy on Caffrey's lodgings, on which authority was he doing this surveillance, and so on. Stone desperately looked at the fallen gun between his feet, but the woman had a too-strong grip on his ear and wrist to even try retrieving it. His cell phone was out of reach as well, lying on the passenger's seat so calling for help was impossible. Besides, who would come to the rescue of an Agent unable to fend off an irate old lady?

"My patience is wearing thin, young man!" said the woman, pinching his left ear so hard it was in danger of developing gangrene from lack of blood.

"Ow! God damn it, stop it! I'm, er… I was waiting for a friend!"

"Oh, so you were?"

"Yes! Ow! He lives in this mansion… This palace, just right here! You have made me missed him, now!"

"So that's the reason why you have been keeping watch on my house?"

Realization dawned on Stone; his attacker could be no one else but June Arbogast, Caffrey's well-to-do landlady and widow of a notorious con man, meaning she probably had an ace lawyer up in her sleeve as well, someone who would make a scandal at the office just for the fun of it. The situation didn't bode well at all; the woman knew the score about cops and robbers and she wasn't the kind to be fooled easily. Stone gulped loudly as he remembered his insinuations about June and how she used Caffrey like a sex toy in payment for the rent. Considering her firm hand on Stone's ear, she was more a tigress than a cougar!

"Yes! I wanted to see Caffr… I meant, Neal!" yelled the agent, partly out of pain from the abuse his wrist was taking but also because the dog was barking its head off, as if it wanted to burst the eardrums of every citizen of New York.

"You know Neal, now, do you?" asked June with a suspicious tone.

"Let me go! I'm an old friend of his; I and he go way back a long time!"

"That's strange, considering he never mentioned you and he gave me a thorough description of all his friends."

"Aah! Ow! Listen, lady, we met in jail. That's probably why he didn't tell you about me!"

"You're a terrible liar, buster!" exclaimed June. "My son has never befriended anyone during his four years in prison and he would never sink so low to speak to a ne'er-do-well like you."

Stone's eyes widened at those words.

"W-What did you say?"

"Neal Caffrey is my son in everything but blood and I am pretty uptight in protecting him from hostiles, may they be cops or outlaws. And I don't appreciate seeing prowlers around my house and spying on my child, got it? So here's a word of advice, Mister: you'd better make yourself scarce or the next time, I'll rip your ear clear off your stupid head and no jury would condemn me, got it?"

"Ouch! Ow! Stop it!"

Stone was at a loss of finding a way out of this ridiculous but painful situation; being scolded by an elderly woman acting like a nineteenth-century teacher was the ultimate humiliation for a trained agent and a gush of blood rushed to his face at the thought a nosey police officer would show up and demand an explanation. No doubts the Arbogast woman would spill the beans and Stone would have to identify himself as a Fed in order to avoid the handcuffs, but then Caffrey would hear about his presence nearby the mansion!

Luckily, salvation came in the form of the barking mutt: for some reason, it managed to get under the car and June, fearing for her pet, tugged at the leash to make it come back to safety. By doing so, she partially relinquished her hold on Stone's ear and the man seized the occasion to floor the gas pedal. The car made a sudden swerve, forcing June to jump backwards; the momentum made her tug violently on the leash and Bugsy yelped in pain as the leather cord pulled at its collar. Stone made the car's motor roar again and he fled in a fury, his gloved and damaged hand making it difficult to have a firm hold on the wheel. But anything was better than facing that Manhattan witch!

A few minutes later, Stone had regained enough composure to start muttering under his breath while driving clumsily, his left ear still hurting from the abuse it had suffered recently. He cursed the whole world in general and Caffrey in particular. The bastard truly had the Devil's own luck: the plan had been foiled, once again! It seemed that Stone had underestimated his foe; not only Caffrey had turned the other feds and Burke against Stone but he had somehow convinced his landlady to adopt him! Where there any end to the thief's infernal gall?

The agent swore loudly as he realized he would never be able to ambush Caffrey at the mansion again; the Juno-lookalike had probably memorized his face and his car and she would tell her so-called son to be wary of dark blue Cadillac vehicles lurking around the neighborhood. A good thing the woman hadn't noticed the .38 in the car, otherwise she would have screamed like a banshee until a cop would arrive. But maybe Caffrey would recognize Stone in the description, and then report it to Burke! His cover was blown!

Stone's phone suddenly came to life, ringing on the passenger's seat. The man grabbed it with trembling broken fingers, fearing it was Burke calling to ask for an explanation; it took him a few minutes to gather some courage and glance at the phone's screen, and then Stone let out a loud sigh of relief: the caller was the Human Resources Department.

"Yes?"

"_Agent Stone?"_

"Yeah, that's me."

"_This is Stevenson from Human Resources. It had come to our attention that you are on sick leave from an injury sustained within the FBI building, but you haven't provided the needed paperwork. Could you come over as soon as possible to regularize the situation?"_

"Yes! Er… Look, I'm not far from the office. I'll drop by in a few minutes and sign whatever you need, okay?"

"_That will be fine, Agent Stone. See you in a few."_

Stone disconnected the phone and considered the situation; going to Human Resources would give him a watertight alibi. Stevenson wasn't known to keep a very attentive eye to the clock – in fact, he often forgot the time to go home – and he could be useful as a witness of Stone's presence within the FBI building. That way, in case the Arbogast widow would tell Caffrey about a man prowling around the mansion, Stone could reject outright any accusation even if his description matched more or less the lurker's. He could also play the sympathy card, arguing his broken fingers had made him fill the paperwork very slowly and that fool Stevenson wouldn't be able to tell when Stone had arrived at the HR Department. Lack of proofs would get the agent off the hook, giving him the opportunity to think of a new plan to kill Caffrey.

His decision taken, Stone headed for the federal building.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, June was typing furiously a number on her cell phone before pressing the "Call" button. She raised the device to her ear, silently praying she would reach her correspondent within seconds while Bugsy, her dog, was whining softly from the strain its neck had endured after the too-brusque yanking of the leash. June bent down to pet the animal, and then her face brightened at the sound of soft ringing at her ear. But her joy was short-lived as she heard Neal's recorded voice saying:<p>

"_Hello, you have reached Neal Caffrey's voicemail. I can't answer you right now but please leave a message after the tone…"_

June sighed in realization that Neal had, for once, taken the subway and his phone wouldn't work underground. But at least, she could leave a message to her son.

"Neal, honey, this is June. Listen, I caught a prowler this morning outside the house, right at the moment when you left for work. He seemed very interested in you but not in a good way. Here's his description…"

TBC…


	10. The topaz eyed youngster

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- Charlotte Brontë (1816 – 1855) was an English novelist and poet. Her most famous novel is _Jane __Eyre_, published in 1847.

- To LvSammy: thank you very much for your birthday wishes, I truly appreciated them! I had a great time with good food and champagne, the best way to spend my special day.

- To Hayley TT Showbiz: thank you! I hope you'll like this new chapter as well.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10: the topaz-eyed youngster<strong>

Neal was waiting in the lobby of the FBI building for the elevator to arrive; even if his well-groomed appearance and calm outside demeanor didn't show it, he was nervous. Right after he had gotten out of the subway station, his cell phone had rang and he had listened to June's message about a mysterious stalker she had caught on the act just outside her house. Neal didn't have any trouble identifying the man from her detailed description: grey eyes, atrocious manners, little courage, it could only be Agent Stone and the fact that he was obviously lying in wait for the ex-convict could only spell trouble.

Neal was certain Stone's presence nearby his home didn't have the support of the FBI: the young man was in the middle of an operation – even if no one at the office knew about it, apart from his "supervisor" – so an extra surveillance would be superfluous and cumbersome. Stone was supposed to be on sick leave after his botched attempt to punch Neal in the face just the day before, so he ought to be at home nursing his damaged hand instead of making a lousy spy act at June's house. Conclusion: Stone had his own agenda and he was resolved in sticking to it, wounded or not, to reach his goal.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what Stone's final motive was: the elimination of Neal Caffrey. The young man was quite aware of that, in fact he had been warned about it a few weeks ago and he had played ever since a subtle game of cat-and-mouse with the agent to see how far Stone would go to get rid of him. However, the con man had been worried about collateral damages, mostly for Peter, Elizabeth and the colleagues of the Bureau; unfortunately, June had been accidently caught up in the scheme and that worried Neal. She was a mother to him and he would never forgive himself if any harm shall befall June or her granddaughters. Stone wasn't the kind of man to be held back by scruples and he wouldn't hesitate to hurt an elderly lady, a gorgeous art student and a little girl if it could serve his purposes.

The elevator finally arrived with a 'ding' and Neal stepped inside the cabin gratefully. Soon he would meet his "supervisor" and give him a report which, hopefully, would spell the end of his solo undercover operation. He didn't know what had been worse, having to deal with the tension of the sting on his own for weeks or hiding the truth to Peter. Well, it wasn't the first time Neal had obfuscated a few facts to his handler – and it had strained their partnership too often for his liking – but for once, he had been sworn to secrecy and it was weighting on his shoulders like an elephant. The young man actually counted the days before the whole truth would be revealed to Peter, and it couldn't be too early.

The elevator ride ended as the cabin reached the nineteenth floor and Neal entered the White Collar Crime Unit office, saluting the agents with his usual charming way. The men smiled, the women fluttered their eyelashes and within minutes, he was sitting at his desk waiting for his e-mail box to open. One glance at Stone's empty spot told him the man was still at large but Neal calmed down a bit at the thought that the persons he cared for were safe: Peter and the co-workers were at the office apart from Hughes, who hadn't arrived yet; Mozzie was out of town; June was probably organizing a surveillance of her house with Naomi (and a few persons who owned her favors) and El had an event planned at the MOMA, with an audience estimated to about 2,000 persons. The coast was clear…

"Neal!" called a voice upstairs, and the con man lifted his eyes to see Burke standing on the mezzanine with a frown on his face, giving him the "two-finger" imperative invitation to join him in his office.

Okay, maybe the coast wasn't as clear as he had supposed it to be…

The young man sighed before getting up on his feet, when his heart skipped a beat as he saw Agent Price leaving Peter's office to head down the stairs. Apparently, the man just had a chat with the head investigator and, judging from Burke's expression, it was related to a certain incident in the bathroom. Darn it, he had hoped the line the line he had fed Price would have lasted longer...

Feeling like going to the Principal's office, Neal climbed the steps and crossed Price's path on his way down. The red-haired man looked a bit embarrassed; he knew he had done the right thing talking to Burke but he couldn't help but feel awkward towards the con man.

"Caffrey, I..."

"Hey, no worries, Price," said Neal while gently tapping the man's arm. "I know you're a good man."

A reassuring smile confirmed his words, and then Neal reached Peter's office and knocked at the door, even though it was open.

"Hi, Peter."

"Close the door and sit down, will you?" said the older man, sitting behind his immaculate desk.

"Oooh, I don't like the sound of this," said Neal while complying nonetheless. He lowered his long frame in one of the office's leather chairs and braced himself for the upcoming bombardment of questions.

"And I don't like learning by third parties about my C.I. being harassed. Why didn't you tell me about Stone attacking you in the men's room?"

Neal inwardly sighed. He really wished his "supervisor" were here to clear the situation but alas he hadn't arrived at the office yet and the young man couldn't ask him for advice or elaborate a strategy. Consequently, he had to do some damage control with the only weapon he had in hand: minimizing the bathroom incident... at least for the time being.

"Come on, Peter, it's no big deal."

"No big deal?" repeated the head investigator with a roar. "Stone manhandled you and tried to shove his fist into your face, and you say it's nothing? And don't bother denying it, Neal: Price may not have witnessed the scene, but he's not a fool and it didn't take him long to make the connection between your disheveled state, Stone's hurt hand and a broken tile. Nice tale about the hand-dryer, by the way – I believed it for a time too, but just a short time. But now, I want to know why you didn't report this aggression to me at once! I am responsible for your security but I can't protect you if you keep on telling cock-and-bull stories, even if you do this for a living!"

Neal winced a bit; Peter was not only furious at him for deliberately omitting the incident, but also because he felt the young man didn't trust him enough to talk about serious matters. That was far from it: Neal trusted Peter unconditionally, and he had even told him so during his foiled infiltration attempt of the Howser Clinic – an initiative that had left him strapped to a bed and drugged off his head, forcing Peter to run at his rescue. But, even high as a kite, the young man had been sincere in his declaration and Peter knew it, which explained his angered reaction.

"It has nothing to do with you, I do trust you with my life and you know it. I didn't tell you about Stone's attack because... Well, I thought I could handle it," said Neal, carefully choosing his words. The first sentence was the absolute truth; the second one was _partly_ the truth.

"You thought you could manage fending off an aggressor who is stronger than you?"

"Yes. As you are quite aware of, Peter, I have spent four years in a maximum-security prison. That makes it a total of 1,460 days, which makes it 35,040 hours or, if you prefer 126,144,000 seconds spent in one of the toughest government's institutions for hardened criminals. During all this time, I had to defend myself from all kinds of hostiles but mostly prisoners to whom I was only 'fresh meat' meant to be raped, tortured and finally destroyed. I don't need to remind you that good looks are a sure way to attract predators in jail and in people's minds artists are only weaklings with grand airs. But I have always come out of attacks with only a few minor bruises, thanks to my ability to always find a way out or, when the situation calls for it, to duck from blows."

Peter remained quiet for a moment. He had been doing his duty the day he had arrested Neal for bound forgery but, after he had gotten to know the young man better, he felt a singe of remorse whenever the time in prison was mentioned. Peter usually disguised his concern with jokes about throwing Neal back to the slammer if he didn't behave himself but deep down, he truly wanted to avoid his partner to wear orange jumpsuits again.

"I'm not saying this to make you feel guilty, Peter," added Neal quickly. "I am just reminding you that I can handle attackers, even without FBI training. That's what happened in the bathroom, by the way: Stone took a swing at me and hit the wall – literally – for his troubles. Now, I say three broken fingers is punishment enough so let's drop the matter, okay?"

"No can do, Neal. Stone attacked you and it is inexcusable. I will ask Hughes to initiate disciplinary actions against him… Neal? What's wrong?" asked Peter, alarmed that the mere mention of the Unit's director made the ex-convict suddenly squirm on his seat. Hughes was an intimidating man but Neal wasn't the kind to be impressed by titles or influence, so what was making him so nervous?

"Nothing…" said the con man, avoiding Peter's gaze.

* * *

><p><em>(Meanwhile, at the HR Department)<em>

"What do you mean, my file isn't complete?" yelled a furious Stone.

"Agent Stone, please keep your voice down," said Agent Conrad Stevenson with a no-nonsense voice. "I know you are a hurt hand but screaming won't make things work faster. Your file isn't complete because you have failed to produce a doctor's note describing the wounds you have sustained to justify your sick leave."

"Is this not a valuable proof for you, idiot?" roared Stone while showing the splints maintaining together the fingers on his right hand.

"Agent Stone, the procedure is quite clear in case of injuries or sicknesses: doctors' notes are mandatory in order to fill up the needed paperwork."

"But I did get a paper from that stupid doctor after she patched me up!"

"Good! So where is it?"

Stone, realizing his usual rudeness wouldn't amount to anything with this infernal pencil-pusher, made a desperate effort to jog his memory and find the whereabouts of this darn note. Then, a ray of light suddenly shone inside his brains as he remembered where he had left it.

"Oh, all right! I left the note in my desk's drawer yesterday! Happy, now?"

"Ecstatic, Agent Stone," answered Stevenson drily. "Now, if you'd be so kind to fetch it, it could improve matters greatly."

"Can't that worthless clerk of yours go pick it up?" said Stone with a harsh movement of his head towards the terrified young woman trying to hide behind a folder."

"No, it isn't Samantha's job. Now, go get this document and then I will hand you the paperwork for your sick leave."

Stone stormed out of the HR department, muttering imprecations about cushy number employees who did their best to put a spoke in real FBI agents' wheels. Stevenson shook his head sadly as he watched the retreating agent heading for the elevator, and started to write a memo about the necessity to request a doctor's note **and** a recent psychiatric check-up in case of overly-aggressive agents.

* * *

><p><em>(At the White Collar Unit)<em>

"Neal, please talk to me. You have been behaving strangely these days. Last week you were dead on your feet, you've buried yourself with work, you live like a recluse at June's, you won't talk about a very serious offence committed by one of my agents and now you are jumping on your seat when Hughes is mentioned. It has been months since Kate's death and I want you to know, you don't have to mourn her on your own. Talking to friends about a loved one is usually very helpful to deal with grief; or, if you want to, I can give you the phone number of a professional…"

"No shrinks, Peter," said the younger man firmly, his blue eyes darkening slightly. "You and I know damn well that the mere mention of me seeing a psychiatrist will set up the bigwigs' machinery for another trip to prison. Besides, I don't like the idea of talking to a complete stranger about what I've felt after watching Kate being blown to pieces in an explosion. It has been horrible but I don't need sessions to rub it in. Just give me some time, okay?"

A moment of silence followed this declaration, and Peter watched Neal carefully. He would never forget that day at the airport, when he had to hold his partner back to prevent him from running towards the plane on fire; after a few minutes of struggle, Neal had finally accepted the horror of the situation and he had collapsed in Peter's arms crying, screaming Kate's name and begging him to do something. And the agent hadn't been able to do anything else but holding his friend tightly, whispering words of comfort in his ear, assuring him everything would be fine even if he knew it would take months, or even years, for Neal to recover from this tragedy.

"Okay, if you're sure."

"I'm sure. Now, can I go back to work? I've just remembered I have to do the Anderson case's paperwork since Stone is out of commission."

"Off you go, but I **will** ask Hughes to take disciplinary actions against Stone."

The ex-convict looked ready to argue again, but one look at Peter's gaze made him stop on his tracks. The older man still had a frown on his face but his brown eyes were betraying concern for his friend, something that always made Neal's heart twist a bit inside his chest. He was always amazed by the amount of caring the agent showed towards him, whereas in a logical world Peter would have hated his guts and tossed away the key of his prison cell. But, to quote Charlotte Brontë, _"__Better __to __be __without __logic __than __without __feeling__"_.

"Okay, you're the boss," conceded Neal.

"Glad to know you've finally admitted that fact!" jokingly said Peter, making the young man smile as he left the office. Burke watched him as he walked down the stairs; true to his word, Neal grabbed the Anderson case's paperwork on Stone's desk before heading for his own seat and getting ready to sort out this mess of documents.

* * *

><p>A beyond-than-enraged Stone got out of the elevator and pushed open the heavy glass door of the White Collar Crime Unit, absolutely furious at the scene in the HR department. Stevenson was supposed to give him an alibi, damn it, not to scold him like a schoolboy about a misplaced paper! The gall of that good-for-nothing, his insolence had been the proverbial straw that had broken the camel's back. Nothing or nobody had better stand on his way or "Buck" Stone wouldn't answer for his actions!<p>

The disastrous string of events that had happened since last week were roaring inside his mind like a whirlwind during a tropical tempest: his abortive attempts to disgrace Caffrey, Burke's refusal to admit him as his true partner, breaking his own hand against the bathroom's walls, his wife filling for divorce and not to forget the crazy witch thwarting a shot at his archenemy. All this was piling up like a mountain of failures and Stone suddenly didn't care anymore if someone apart from the old biddy had seen him lurking about the con man's palace. All that mattered to him was retrieving that goddamned doctor's note, present it to that exasperating Stevenson and get out of this building. At least, with Linda and the brats out of the picture, he would finally get some needed peace and quiet at home, the best conditions to elaborate a new plan to get rid of Caffrey.

Speaking of whom… Stone shot a venomous look at the handsome young man, dressed like a supermodel, filling up forms and oblivious to anything else. Disgusting little bastard, he should enjoy his undeserved freedom while he could, because soon his life would become a living Hell; Stone would make sure of this!

The agent opened his desk's drawer in a brusque movement and picked up the doctor's note tucked inside, and then slammed shut the container with a loud bang, making Jonathon Taylor jump on his seat in surprise. Then he noticed something that made him stood still: his desk had been cleaned up. The computer screen was at its place, as well as the pencil pots and the calendar, but the pile of paperwork regarding the Anderson case had disappeared. Stone remained dumbfounded for a minute, and then his features brightened a bit as he jumped to the inevitable wrong conclusion: Burke had taken into consideration his wounded hand and he had designed a secretary to do the work in his stead. The Head Investigator had finally accepted him as his equal!

Taylor's topaz-colored eyes locked on Stone and looked as the man grinned like a maniac. The youngster had been warned repetitively to not cross the path of the sloppiest agent of the Unit and he had thoroughly followed this advice, but he couldn't help but worry about the scene displayed in front of him; Stone was known for his mercurial nature and he had switched from furious to cheerful in less than a minute, meaning the situation could change again and go downhill very fast. Taylor was a newbie but he was clever and capable, qualities that had prompted Peter to hire him right after he had graduated at Quantico, and his instinct told him to not let Stone out of his sight.

The troublemaking agent headed for Peter's office with the intention to thank him for his change of heart, but then he spotted something and his face turned red: Caffrey was indeed busy filling up paperwork… but it was the Anderson case's one. The usurper had somehow persuaded Burke to give him one of **his** cases!

"CAFFREY!" roared Stone, making everyone in the Pit jump in fright.

"What?" asked Neal just before Stone grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him roughly on his feet. Taylor dropped everything on his desk and rushed to the consultant's rescue.

"YOU DISGUSTING LITTLE THIEF! THIS TIME YOU'VE GONE TOO FAR, PUNK, AND NOW I'M GONNA RIP YOUR GUTS OUT, DO YOU HEAR ME? BASTARD!"

"Stone! Let him go!" exclaimed Taylor, shocked by the behavior of the senior agent. Behind him, agents were either calling for security or wondering if they should grab their guns and shoot at a colleague who had finally snapped.

"GET LOST, GREENIE, OR I'LL PUNCH YOUR LIGHTS OUT!"

Taylor's gold-and-brown eyes' shone in anger but he kept his voice very calm and controlled as he answered: "Your threats mean very little to me, Stone. Now, release Caffrey at once."

Neal casted an anxious glance at the youngest member of the Unit; his own situation was already perilous and Taylor didn't need to be involved in it, the kid was too young and he lacked experience in dealing with madmen, including inside an FBI office.

"It's okay, Jonathon," managed to say the con man in spite of Stone's hands being too close to his throat for comfort. "Just back off, everything will be fine."

"YEAH, BACK OFF, SNOT-NOSED GREENHORN!"

"No," said Taylor, standing his ground in such a resolute way it made Neal suddenly remember that old saying about youth never listening.

"STONE!" roared a new voice; this time it was Peter who had gotten out of his office to see what the commotion was about, and he couldn't believe one of his agents was actually attacking Neal in front of an audience composed of seasoned FBI agents and employees. He ran down the stairs as he asked: "What on Earth do you think you're doing?"

"Stone has attacked Caffrey without any reason, Sir!" said an outraged Taylor.

"THE LITTLE CREEP HAS STOLEN ONE OF MY CASES!" yelled Stone, his bloodshot eyes bulging out of their orbits from rage.

"I'm the one who had authorized Caffrey to take over the Anderson case during your sick leave!" shouted Peter back.

That last piece of news fell on Stone with the impact of a ton of bricks on his head. Burke had deliberately entrusted one of his cases to Caffrey? He had… betrayed him?

"You… what?" stuttered the discomfit agent.

"I gave the Anderson case to Caffrey, he has never stolen it. Now, release him!"

"Yeah, release him, you buffoon!" growled Taylor. He watched out from the corner of his eye that Harris – the bald agent built like a tank – had discreetly gotten closer from the aggressor and his prey. No doubts Harris planned to free Caffrey from Stone's hold within seconds and break all the remaining fingers on the madman's hands in the process.

"Taylor, back off!" said Peter, worried by the presence of his youngest too close to danger but before the kid could comply, Stone had pulled his gun out of his zipped sweatshirt and aimed it right at Taylor's face.

"Who is a buffoon?" asked the agent with a deadly voice.

TBC…


	11. The empty eyed philosopher

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- To quote the Shakin' Stevens song: Merry Christmas, everyone! This chapter is posted in advance as an early Christmas gift to my wonderful readers and reviewers.

- To LvSammy: I'd hate the idea of you dying from the suspense. Hope you'll like the new chapter! ;-)

- Socrates (c. 469 B.C. – 399 B.C.) was a classical Greek Athenian philosopher and Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche (1844 – 1900) was a 19th-century German philosopher, poet, composer and classical philologist.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11: the empty-eyed philosopher<strong>

Neal felt drops of sweat running down his spine, under his expensive and well-ironed white shirt. His hands were raised in surrender but it hadn't calmed down his attacker one bit. How could things have gone bad so fast? One minute he was filling up paperwork about the Anderson case while patiently waiting for his "supervisor" to show up, the next he was manhandled by a maniac who was at the same time aiming a gun at the face of young Jonathon Taylor, the rookie of the White Collar Crime Unit. The situation was extremely dangerous: Stone had obviously gone over the edge, he didn't give a damn anymore about the consequences for his actions. The fingers of his right hand were still in splints but he somehow managed to have a good grip on his service revolver, his forefinger free from restrains to press on the trigger more easily; one word gone wrong and it could spell the end not only for Taylor, but also for the other employees of the Unit.

The con man glanced along and he could see the agents were deeply shocked by their colleagues' actions, but they were also getting ready to do something. The clerks were calm and the men were discreetly getting into action, following their Quantico training in case of hostage-taking situations. Jones had slipped his hand under his suit's jacket, reaching for the gun hidden beneath and his dark eyes were shining in his resolve to blow Stone's brains out within seconds. Diana, her face a mask of resolution, was inconspicuously getting closer to the scene with the intention to break Stone's remaining hand before ripping his head off his shoulders. Harris, the solidly-built agent, was also approaching slowly, with the intention to pull Taylor out of danger: the poor kid had paled considerably after seeing the muzzle of Stone's weapon pointed right at him and yet his topaz-colored eyes never faltered – a testimony of his courage.

But there was the matter of Peter… Oh God, Peter had gone down the half-flight of stairs and he was walking calmly towards Stone with his hands raised in a gesture of peace (but also to prove to the madman that he wasn't carrying). Neal felt a twinge of panic as he knew Peter was a born leader who would do anything in his power to protect his people and his C.I. from danger, including putting himself in harm's way if needed. But that wouldn't serve the con man's plans at all! He had gone through a lot of trouble to protect Peter; it wasn't to see his partner in the line of fire of a maniac!

"I repeat, who is a buffoon, little twerp?" asked Stone again to Taylor, his dangerously calm tone making a sharp contrast with his bulging eyes and the saliva running from the corner of his mouth. "Who taught you this fancy word, anyway?"

A light shone inside Neal's quicksilver brains: Stone had just given him an opportunity to get Taylor out of the line of fire.

"Actually, I've taught him," said the ex-convict in a casual voice.

"WHAT?" roared Stone, his gun changing from pointing at the direction of the youngster's face to place itself under Neal's chin.

"Stone!" yelled Peter. His cry prompted Harris to act and he grabbed Taylor before pulling him away from the scene, as far as possible from the madman. Jones got his weapon from under his jacket and aimed at Stone in a perfect movement, every inch the soldier he was. But he couldn't shoot without endangering Neal, who was too close from the target.

Peter's heart was pounding inside his chest like a hammer, and yet his calm demeanor betrayed nothing. The situation had changed drastically; Neal's witty retort had made Stone loose his concentration, allowing Harris to pull Taylor out of the way. But the con man was in direct danger of being gunned himself: Stone was grunting and snorting like a mad bull, the canon of his gun was stuck under Neal's lower jaw and, judging by the gibbering coming out of the agent's mouth, he was so furious he couldn't talk. Peter felt grateful towards his partner for having saved Taylor's life, but he was also frantic of worry Neal's act of heroism would earn him a bullet in the brains.

"Stone, listen to me," said Peter in a calm voice. "Don't shoot Caffrey, he's not worth it; he's not worthy of your career."

"He… He… made fun of… m-me…." managed to growl Stone between his teeth, spraying saliva everywhere but especially on Neal's face.

"He doesn't matter, he's nothing. Do you hear me? He's nothing, just a tool at my belt to help us solve cases. He's not worth the cost of a bullet, so why would you waste one on him? Come on, you are more intelligent than that. You don't want to throw your future to the toilet bowl just for him, do you? Just put your gun on the desk, and then you and I will have a quiet talk in my office. How do coffee and a chat sounds?"

"Havta… kill him…"

"No, Stone, you don't have to kill Caffrey! Listen, you and I are both full-fledged federal agents. We deal with any kind of situation with calm and intelligence; remember your training at Quantico? Well, now's the time to show your colleagues, and the rest of the world, that you have perfectly assimilated those lessons. Unhand Caffrey, and we'll have a talk like reasonable human beings."

"NO! YOU'LL SHOOT ME!" yelled Stone, the muzzle of his gun digging even more deeply against Neal's throat. The young man barely refrained from whimpering in pain at the hard contact of cold metal on his skin.

"I give you my word – and I never broke it in my life – that no one is going to shoot you. I won't let anyone hurt you; Jones, lower your weapon at once and that's an order. Listen up, everybody!" said Peter in a louder voice, trying to distract the mad agent to prevent him from panicking. "Stone is not to be hurt, got it?"

A chorus of _"__Yes, boss__"_ answered Burke's order and Jones lowered his gun (albeit reluctantly) to put it on a nearby table. Harris was still shielding Taylor by keeping the youngster behind his mack truck-like body, even though Stone seemed to have forgotten all about the kid. Diana, however, hadn't stopped her maneuver and was getting closer to Neal's desk but a sharp grip from Price stopped the woman short. She frowned, but the red-haired agent gave her a knowing look: their boss had his reasons and, most likely, a backup plan to save the C.I.

"Stone, come on," said Peter, trying to placate the madman. "Release Caffrey and come to my office. Whatever you want to talk about, I'll listen and we will find a solution together."

"YOU BETRAYED ME, BURKE!" screamed Stone, making every clerk jump in fright again. "I TRUSTED YOU AND YOU BETRAYED ME!"

Peter stared at his accuser, not truly comprehending what he was hearing: "I betrayed you? How?"

"YOU GAVE CAFFREY THE ANDERSON CASE! **MY** CASE!"

The Head Investigator quickly understood the origins of the conflict: Stone had seen Neal re-doing the botched forms and he had inevitably jumped to the wrong conclusion, namely that the ex-convict had been given this task out of favoritism so he would be congratulated for the Anderson case instead of Stone. Peter would have laughed out loud at the absurdity of this logic if the situation hadn't been so dramatic; doing extra paperwork because of a lazy colleague could hardly be called preferential treatment. But Neal was in peril and Peter knew that in case of madmen, a sure way to calm them was to _"__play the game__"_: with Stone, it consisted in flattering his oversized ego.

"Of course, I gave him the case!" said Peter. "Your hand is hurt; did you think I would compromise its healing by ordering you to write paperwork for hours? You're on sick leave and you must rest your fingers so you'll be back amongst us at a 100%, I won't have it less otherwise. I am concerned by your well-being and I refuse to force you to fill up forms while you are incapacitated."

"DON'T F*****G PATRONIZE ME!"

"I'm not. I am giving you the same amount of consideration as anybody else in this Unit. What kind of Head Investigator would I be if I forced my subordinates to work while wounded? There are procedures to follow when FBI agents are hurt on the job, you know! Now, I gave Caffrey the task to fill up the paperwork about the Anderson case because he was getting idle, and whenever he is it spells trouble. At least, when he's busy, his mind isn't wandering about anything semi-illegal. It's only clerical work, I know, but Caffrey is good with that – in fact, it's the only thing he is truly good at."

Peter tried not to be distracted by the flash of hurt he saw in Neal's baby blues for a half-second. _I__'__m sorry, kiddo_.

"I have ordered Caffrey to do the Anderson paperwork," continued Peter, "but I have strictly forbidden him to mention his little contributions. I also told him I would review it thoroughly and sign in your stead, so all the merit would be attributed to you. The Anderson case is yours; always have, always will be. Caffrey acts as your secretary and not as your replacement."

* * *

><p>The word <em>"<em>_secretary__"_ briefly pierced the fog of hate clouding Stone's brains. He had a nasty grin as he looked at Neal, the gun jammed under his chin, his usually well-groomed appearance being ruined by the stress of being so close to imminent death. The pet had finally been put down a few notches; not feeling so cocky, eh, little bastard? He had finally understood he had gone too far trying to ruin the reputation of a real FBI agent, and it had taken him long enough. Guess Caffrey's reputation as a smart guy was usurped, like the rest! And he had been assigned to fill up paperwork like a brainless clerk while real men like Stone would be out on the field, solving cases and taking down perpetrators in a hail of bullets.

"My secretary?" repeated Stone in a calmer tone.

"Yes!" exclaimed Peter, feeling he had scored a point with the enraged agent. "You've told me many times that you deserved one, and you were right: the wounds you have sustained allow you to have some extra help with the desk work until you are properly healed. It's standard procedure concerning all FBI agents. Now, what about my proposal of coffee in my office? Don't you think you and I should have a talk like the true professionals we are?"

Stone started to snicker softly, his grey eyes rolling maniacally in their orbits as he stared at Neal, the gun unmoving from his victim's throat. The agent seemed to be relishing at Peter's words and to be comforted in his status as a federal agent; this notion was giving him superiority over the alleged forger, ex-convict and C.I.-just-out-of-luck and maybe Burke was right: scum like Caffrey wasn't worth the cost of a bullet. Striking the young man with the butt of his service revolver would be much more fun – it would be an unforgettable experience to see Caffrey's undeserved handsomeness being damaged by a black eye!

Stone slowly pulled his gun away from Neal's throat, but the young man could see a grin on his attacker's lips that did not bode well. Neal had been in dangerous situations more than he could count and being held at gunpoint wasn't new to him, but at least his enemies/con victims/ fellow truants hadn't been crazies. Dealing with a psychopath was uncharted territory to him and he simply hated being caught unaware, especially when loved ones were too close to trouble.

Peter saw Stone moving back his gun from his prey and the older man couldn't stop a sigh of relief from escaping his lips. He had done the right thing praising the maniac's agent status while at the same time disparaging Neal's work – even if it had cost him a good deal, since Peter would rather eat dirt than disavow his partner in public. But desperate times called for desperate measures and cajoling a crazed gunman had been the only way to save Neal from a horrible death.

From the corner of his eye, Peter could see the most seasoned agents discreetly guiding the clerks and secretaries to hide behind bookcases, desks and filing cabinets, to ensure them a bit of safety in case of a gunfight. Nobody could leave the Unit, not with a madman so close to the door, but at least attempts could be done to avoid collateral damage. Harris was still protecting Taylor, Jones' hand was still close to his gun and Diana had started to move towards Neal's desk again but this time, Price was backing her up.

"So, Caffrey is my secretary now, right?" asked a snickering Stone, making Neal's blood turn cold.

"That's right", confirmed Peter.

"And you don't consider him better than me, yes?"

"How could I? You are a full-fledged FBI agent and he's only a C.I."

"Then why have you b-been harassing me with the Anderson paperwork all the time?" said Stone, suddenly whining like a spoiled child.

Peter gave the agent a carefully-calculated frown, like a toned-down version of the one he usually gave Neal after the young man had given one of his weird, out-of-the-box ideas that always worked.

"Stone, I may have been a bit harsh about that matter but it's because I expect great things from you. Have you ever seen me yelling at Caffrey over forms? No, and that's because I don't expect anything important from him. I focus my attention solely on worthy people, okay? The Anderson case is a high-profile one and every _"__i__"_ had to be dotted and every _"__t__"_ crossed because I wanted it to be perfect, a textbook case that will be used later as example for the rookies at Quantico. It's a hard job but I knew you could do it."

Stone grinned again and he took a step backwards, relinquishing his hold on Neal's shirt; nonetheless the young man knew it wasn't over. Something was wrong. Even if Peter's words and orders had done wonders to calm down the maniac, the crisis wasn't solved and Neal couldn't shake the feeling that another development would be coming soon… and it wouldn't be for the best.

"You… You think highly of me, B-Burke?" stuttered Stone.

"Yes," answered Peter at once.

"So y-you'll have me as your p-partner?"

Peter was briefly taken aback by the question; where in the world did this come from? He hadn't had a partner since he had been promoted Head Investigator at the White Collar Crime Unit, years ago. As senior officer, it was his duty to form teams but he did his job on his own, without an assistant to help him. Then, Neal had been released in his custody and the young man had evolved from troublemaking C.I. to his resourceful friend and partner, even without an official title. Everybody inside the FBI building knew that fact and the rare attempts to separate Neal from Peter had ended in disaster – like the time Agent Rice had "requisitioned" the ex-convict for her own glory, and she had learned the hard way that it didn't pay to mess with Burke and Caffrey. Peter had no idea why this idea had suddenly popped in Stone's muddled thoughts but he decided that the best way to get the bottom of it was to play along.

Neal had a small shudder after hearing the madman's question; it confirmed everything his "supervisor" had told him, and a quote by Nietzsche jumped inside his mind to resume the situation: _"__Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man__"_.

"Of course, Stone; I'll have you as my partner, if that's what you want. It's been a long time since I had a real agent by my side to help me with cases."

"Y-Y-You d-do?"

"Yes, I do."

Stone suddenly jumped and grabbed Neal's shirt again but, this time, he aimed his gun straight at Peter.

"**YOU****'****RE LYING!****"** roared the madman, and some clerks screamed out of fright.

Jones picked up his weapon from the table and directed it towards Stone again, the former orders forgotten in front of this menace at his superior. Harris had thrown himself to the floor with Taylor; Diana swore softly as she had gotten too late to stop Stone; the maniac had evolved from endangering Neal to threaten the Head Investigator! Price was also swearing, furious by this turn of events, and he inwardly thought what was taking security so long to arrive.

Peter's brown eyes widened at the sight of the gun aimed at him and fear turned his blood into ice. That wasn't happening; he couldn't be facing death in his own Unit, just a step away from his office! The face of his smiling wife flashed before his eyes and his heart twisted painfully inside his chest. His beautiful Elizabeth… What would become of her if he died? Neal, still in the clutches of Stone… No, he couldn't let any harm to befall on his kid! Jones, Diana and the others… his team, the Harvard squad, all good people who had worked with him for years, he couldn't allow a maniac to end their lives!

"Listen, Stone…" began to say Peter but the agent stopped him by yelling at the top of his lungs.

"BASTARD! YOU'RE A BASTARD, BURKE! YOU LIED TO ME! YOU STOOD HERE AND YOU'VE DELIBERATEDLY LIED TO ME! AND I'VE HAD IT! I'M FED UP WITH BEING CONSTANTLY PERSECUTED! I'M THE BEST AGENT AND YOU KNOW IT BUT YOU'RE JEALOUS, JUST LIKE THE REST OF THIS MISERABLE BUNCH! AND YOU'VE INSULTED ME BY TAKING AS YOUR PARTNER THE JAILBIRD HERE! HOW DARE YOU THINK THIS PIECE OF TRASH IS BETTER THAN ME? BUT YOU'RE GONNA PAY, DO YOU HEAR ME? PAY! NOBODY CAN MOCK BUCK STONE!"

But Stone had committed an error; during his violent diatribe against Burke, he had completely forgotten about the young man still in his grip and Neal had seized the opportunity to do something.

Because Neal had seen red after the maniac had aimed a gun at Peter; anger had replaced fear and his blood was boiling inside his veins like lava in an erupting volcano. Stone had crossed a line and he was going to see the error of his ways… real soon!

Neal grabbed the bust of Socrates adorning his desk and raised his right arm; the plaster statue collided violently with Stone's jaw with a muffled _"clun__k__"_, cutting short his list of recriminations towards Peter. Stone cried out in pain as the impact fractured his jaw, knocked out one of his lower teeth and made him bite his own tongue, but Neal wasn't done with him. He jerked himself free from the attacker's hold (ripping his shirt's front pocket in the process) and then he swung his arm again.

_Whoosh._

Pow.

_**CRRRRRAAAAASSHHHHH!**_

Socrate's bust shattered into a hundred pieces as it hit Stone right in the face; the agent cried again and he pressed the trigger of his gun but the shot went wild and perforated one of the ceiling's neon lights instead of Burke. The tube went out in an explosion of sparks and glass shards, giving the signal for Jones, Diana and Peter to jump at Stone and throw him to the ground. A violent scuffle followed but in less than a minute the maniac was subdued, handcuffed and immobilized while Jones kept his gun aimed at him for safety's sake and Diana was shouting:

"If you move, I'll break your head, do you hear me?"

But Stone wasn't listening; caught in his madness, he kept on mumbling in spite of his damaged jaw that he was the best FBI agent the world had ever seen, that the rest of the unit was only composed of good-for-nothings and he would make his way in the world in spite of their disparagement. Price shook his head sadly at the thought of the dark future awaiting his ex-colleague: prison or psych ward. Harris got on his feet and lead Taylor, the secretaries and the clerks outside the room, safely away from Stone. One of the clerks started to cry and a secretary immediately proposed to accompany her to the restaurant downstairs for a comforting cup of tea.

Peter got on his feet and grabbed the first phone at hand to call security but he couldn't take his eyes off his C.I. who was standing very still at his desk, his handsome face tense with barely-contained anger. Peter could hardly believe it: Neal had done a violent move for the very first time and he had saved Peter's life by single-handily taking down Stone with a plaster statue! Socrates was lying on the floor, his head reduced to pieces; only his empty eyes and sorrowful face had remained intact after the violent collision with the enraged agent's mug. The Greek philosopher seemed chagrined that violence had been employed to solve the crisis but he seemed to understand his role as sacrificial lamb...

* * *

><p>After a few minutes the confusion was over. Security guards finally arrived – earning a sharp comment from Peter who told them off for taking their sweet time – and Stone was lead out of the building under a heavy escort. The man had to be half-dragged since he hadn't recovered from his encounter with a statue but his dizzy state didn't prevent some of the remaining clerks to jump in fright at his sight. Everybody in the White Collar Crime Unit let out a big sigh of relief only after Stone was loaded in the elevator and the metallic doors had closed on him, disappearing from their lives forever.<p>

Peter rushed towards Neal and put his hand on his shoulder, but the young man didn't react. His eyes, as hard as sapphires, were locked on the elevator as if he expected Stone to step out of it and restart his murdering rampage. Peter had never seen his friend look so cold, so angry, so… _resolute_, not even after Kate's death. It was a frightening thing to see, like watching a kitten morphing into a lion within seconds.

"Hey, buddy, you with me?"

"Hunh?

"Neal?"

"Oh! Er, yes, Peter."

"God, kid, are you all right? You have been pretty roughed up by Stone. Do you need to see a doctor?"

"What? Oh no, I'm fine, he only damaged my shirt but what about you? You're the one who had a gun waved at your face just a moment ago and that's always an unpleasant experience."

"I'm okay, and it's only thanks to you," said Peter, his brown eyes warming at the recollection of Neal's actions. He squeezed the young man's shoulder in a gesture of affection, his prideful smile on his lips. "We owe you a debt of gratitude, all of us."

"Well…" started to say Neal but he was interrupted by Jones heartily slapping him on the back.

"Good job, my man."

"Yes, good thinking, Neal!" said Diana. "It was a stroke of genius from your part to hit Stone with that bust of Socrates."

"Which just shows that knowledge is real power," added Price with a smile.

Neal looked sadly at the remains of the statue which had decorated his desk for months. He couldn't regret saving Peter's life, not for a second, but the destruction of a work of art was always heartbreaking for him. Even if it had been only made of plaster and millions of similar statues could be bought in stores, the figure of Socrates had been a steadfast companion during Neal's long hours between the bland Bureau's walls and he would miss it.

"Neal?" asked Peter, his voice cutting through the young man's train of thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"How do you feel?"

"Right now, I'm pissed off!" said the ex-convict in an uncharacteristic burst of indignation. "I would never have believed Stone would show up here with a gun and try to shoot at you! The nerve of that guy… And all this because he hoped to become your partner against all odds and he wanted to push me out of the picture!"

Neal grabbed a discarded piece of paper and crouched down to pick up the fragments of plaster on the floor, using the paper like a dust pan as he wanted to throw Socrates' remains in the trash afterwards; but after a few seconds, Peter hunkered down next to him.

"Neal, you knew about Stone's intentions?"

The young man paled at the realization he had just betrayed himself out of rightful anger. Damn it, how could he have made such a goof worthy of a first-timer con man? Mozzie would be ashamed of him!

"What is this about?" said Peter with a no-nonsense tone. "If you knew about Stone's intentions, why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"Er… Well, Peter, it's… Look, maybe you're right; I should go see a doctor, just as a precaution… Maybe Stone hurt me more than I thought…"

"Oh no, you don't!" exclaimed the elder man, hauling Neal and himself up on their feet. "And don't try your usual stalling, it won't work. I know damn well you hate hospitals and you'd rather have your wisdom teeth pulled out with anesthetic than go willingly to the E.R.! I want to know what this whole business with Stone is about and I want to know it now, so start talking!"

"**I** will tell you what this business is about!" said an authoritarian voice, rising above the buzzing of the Pit.

Neal and Peter turned about in a same movement.

It was Hughes.

TBC…


	12. The hawk eyed man

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- Happy New Year 2012, everybody! May all your wishes come true!

- "_The Last of the Mohicans__"_ is a novel by James Fenimore Cooper (1789 – 1851), first published in 1826.

- Albrecht Dürer (1471 – 1528) was a German painter, printmaker, engraver, mathematician and theorist.

- Arsène Lupin, the gentleman thief, is a fictional character created by French writer Maurice Leblanc (1864 – 1941).

- Details about Narcissistic personality disorder come from Wikipedia.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12: the hawk-eyed man<strong>

Peter was stunned; his gaze was rived on Reese Hughes, Director of the White Collar Crime Unit who was wrapped in his usual raincoat and standing right in the middle of the Pit, looking severely at his agents as if he was evaluating their behavior in a crisis situation. Apparently satisfied by their professionalism, Hughes briefly glanced at the debris of the Socrates statue strewing the floor, and then he darted a look at Neal. The young man cringed, visibly ill at ease and Peter wondered what the Hell was going on. Neal was one of the most courageous men he had ever met and yet he was behaving like a shy schoolboy being asked to recite in front of the class.

Sure, Hughes was an impressive figure: white receding hair, angular features and unblinking blue eyes gave him the appearance of a hawk, plus his habit to lean on the mezzanine's railing when calling for someone, acting like a bird of prey leaning on a tree branch seconds before swooping on a prey – hence the nickname the Harvard Squad had bestowed him, _"__Hawkeye__"_ from the "Last of the Mohicans" book. Some agents from other units would call him a lot worse but not straight to his face. Hughes had too many years at the F.B.I. under his belt and knew too many secrets to be snubbed on or put aside, besides, it could be dangerous! But Neal was a "free electron", a particle of dust dancing in the sunlight regardless of gravity and he had never submitted to anyone's authority, including Hughes'. So why was he behaving so strangely, was it because he feared his recent knocking-out of Stone would put him in trouble?

Peter's eyes flashed in anger at the thought; no way would he let Neal take the heat for fighting off a madman and he was ready to defend the young man at all costs. The Marshalls wouldn't slap the cuffs on Neal for a self-defense move – he had saved Peter's life in the process, for crying out loud, as well as Taylor's and all the people in the Unit!

Peter was getting ready to speak on his friend's behalf but Hughes simply sighed, looking suddenly older than usual as he distractedly pushed the remains of plaster Socrates with the tip of his shoes, as if he had been freed from a heavy burden from his shoulders. Then he raised his head and his unforgiving gaze fell on Peter, and then on Neal:

"Burke, Caffrey, in the conference room. At once."

And, without adding another word, the Director headed for the large room next to Peter's office, shrugging his raincoat off his shoulders on the go. He stopped for an instant at Stone's desk, opened its right-side drawer and took out a small item before slipping it in his suit's pocket. Hughes movement had been too quick to make out what he had taken but Peter thought it suspiciously looked like a notebook.

Neal tossed aside the piece of paper he had wanted to use to collect what was left of Socrates; somehow, he got the feeling that they were to endure a very long meeting and the mess would be cleaned up when they would get out of the conference room… He turned about to climb the flight of stairs as well but Peter's hand on his arm stopped him short.

"What?"

"Neal, what is going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"You are _willingly_ going to a meeting with Hughes?" asked Peter incredulously. "I could have sworn that it was the kind of thing you want to avoid at all costs!"

"In normal circumstances, Peter, yes I'd rather not find myself arguing in front of Ol' Hawkeye, but Stone has made a bit of trouble and I am not only talking about his recent histrionics with a gun. He has created quite a poisonous situation and I am glad it is over, especially without casualties among the team. Thus, I am both looking and **not** looking forward to this meeting with Hughes."

"Why?"

"On the positive side, it will clear up a lot of things that had happened in the office these past few weeks. The negative side, however, is something I dread…"

"Like what? You fear to be sent back to jail?"

"No, that you might be crossed at me."

This time, Peter felt his lower jaw hit the floor: Neal was concerned about his reaction? The con man with the infernal charm and dazzling smile, who had never given a second thought about the consequences of his actions, was suddenly worried about his partner being angry? It really felt as if the Earth had a major hiccup and was turning upside down on its axis but before the older man could ask another question, Neal gently took him by the arm and whispered:

"Please, come with me to the conference room. I'll explain everything and so will Hughes, but I don't want to have a discussion in front of the other guys."

Peter couldn't do anything but move towards the stairs. His puzzlement gave him an iron-like determination to get the bottom of the story and, judging by his frown and his brisk pace as he climbed up the steps, he wouldn't relent before he had obtained all the answers from Hughes and his C.I.. Neal was suddenly aware that the Pit was quieter than usual and he saw Jones, Diana, Price and the others were all looking directly at him. The young man realized they were actually worried about him, like smashing a statue in the face of a deranged agent would make him win a free trip to a maximum-security prison. Neal took a look around and smiled gently around before saying:

"All will go fine, guys."

"You keep your chin up, okay, my man?" said Jones.

The ex-SEAL and the ex-convict exchanged a high-five before Neal climbed the stairs in a solemn silence.

* * *

><p>In the conference room, Hughes had taken the President's place, namely he was occupying the chair at the far end of the dark, shiny table. Peter was seated next to him on the left side of the table, just below the whiteboard. When Neal entered, he realized he was expected to seat in front of Peter, drawing a triangle to keep confidential information within. But Neal Caffrey was anything but conventional so he deliberately chose to seat on the window's ledge, crossing his legs in the lotus position. Peter's frown deepened at the young man's ill-timed demonstration of individuality but Hughes cleared his throat, reminding him of more important matters.<p>

"Leave it, Burke. After all the good work Caffrey had done, we can tolerate his unusual way to attend a meeting."

"With all due respect, Sir, what are you talking about? Neal had indeed done a good job, especially on the Anderson painting and the Caulfield fraud but I have a feeling that something else is at hand."

"Indeed, there is. And Caffrey was in the middle of it."

"Then why in the world wasn't I informed?" roared Peter in a rare display of anger. "I'm Neal's handler, he's my responsibility and you didn't bother to tell me he had been assigned to another case? Why have I been left out in the cold? And for God's sake, how can all this be linked with Stone?"

"Burke, sit down!"

"We all know what happened when another agent forced Neal to work for him or her! Rice sold him to gangsters for a worthless promise and he almost got killed! And now you're saying that you've thrown him to the lions again?"

"Peter, please! Listen to Hughes!" pleaded the con man.

"**Neal is not a pawn to be sacrificed!****"** thundered Peter.

Hughes' brow furrowed, which was an infallible sign of imminent anger. The atmosphere was turning explosive and Neal stood up, desperate to save the situation at all costs. He had survived Stone and his murdering rampage; that was enough excitement for one day and the last thing he needed was watching Peter getting in trouble for talking back at his superior. So he filled his lungs with oxygen and shouted at the top of his voice:

"I'M GONNA GO TO THE MET AND STEAL THE _"__VIRGIN AND CHILD WITH A PEAR__" ENGRAVING BY_ DÜRER!"

That produced the expected results: Peter's harangue was cut short like with a sickle and Hughes' hawkish eyes widened in surprise. Both men turned their heads towards the young man, who added in a calmer tone:

"Just kidding, but I need you both to calm down so the three of us can get out of this meeting without jumping at each other's throat. Peter, will you please let Hughes speak? He'll tell you the whole story, trust me. The episode with Stone has been a harrowing experience, we're all tired and upset but we need a fight between ourselves like we need the building to burst into flames!"

Hughes' frown deepened and Neal feared he may have overstepped his bounds one time too many, but the Director merely leaned against the back on his chair, looking a bit abashed.

"It has come to something, when F.B.I. agents are reminded of their duty by a master forger," said Hughes.

"_Alleged_ master forger," automatically corrected Neal, "and I'm not presumptuous enough to remind you of anything. You guys know your job; I'm only a consultant."

"You're an **asset** to the unit, Neal," said Peter, prompting the young man to blush slightly. He tried to hide his embarrassment by lowering his face while sitting back on the window's ledge but the two other men couldn't help but notice the faint rush of blood on Neal's handsome face and it would have been comical if not for the rocky start of the meeting.

"Okay, now back to business," said Hughes with a no-nonsense tone. "Burke, I want you to listen to what I've got to say and to listen good before you react. The matter with Stone started a few weeks ago; I called him to my office after he had messed with the paperwork on the Serano case, do you remember this incident?"

Peter nodded; this case had been a difficult one and Stone's negligence had complicated the matter even more. Rafael Serano, a baggage employee at the JFK airport, had been accused of stealing priceless gold pieces from Israel and destined for an exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum. The coins were part of Israel's National Treasure and dated from the first century B.C., but some of them had been found in Serano' locker. The man had claimed his innocence but, with evidences pointing towards him, it had looked like a lost cause until Peter and Neal had found out the coins had been counterfeit. A thorough examination of the JFK luggage manager's bank accounts had brought new light to the investigation and Serano's deportation to Israel had been stopped just in time. However, lateness caused by Stone's botched paperwork had almost condemned an innocent man to a long stay in an Israeli jail, awaiting his trial.

"Yes, I remember it quite vividly."

"Well, I convoked Stone in my office to scold him about his oversight and he remained deaf to everything I said. He kept on saying that filing up forms was an activity "unworthy" of him and he deserved to work with the best man of the F.B.I. In the end, I told him he had a snowball's chance in Hell to ever work in the field and he sniggered, saying that he who laughs last laugh the best. I was completely put off by his attitude and I was getting ready to launch disciplinary actions against him but something held me back… Like a hunch or something telling me that Stone's problem wasn't just insolence, but a lot worse."

"What was it?"

"I couldn't put my finger on it at the moment, but something was nagging me and it was impossible to ignore it. So one evening, after everybody at the Unit had gone home, I stayed behind to search Stone's desk drawers."

Peter's eyes widened at those words: searching the desk of an F.B.I. agent was indeed a grave action that could be only be done on the grounds of suspicion of an act of treachery and approved by an authorization delivered by the top executives.

"Yes, Burke, I acted illegally but I had to know so I forced a drawer's lock to find out what Stone was up to."

"Call the press! Hughes is an amateur burglar!" said Neal, trying to lighten up the mood.

"Caffrey!" growled the said Director.

"Please continue, Director Arsène Lupin!"

Hughes sighed heavily in exasperation, but carried on with his story: "The drawer's content was a mess, as expected, but after a few minutes I found a notebook tucked under an old box of staples. Curiosity killed the cat but I die hard, so I took out that notebook to take a peek inside… God, it was terrible."

"What do you mean, Sir?" asked Peter.

Hughes pulled out from his jacket's pocket the item he had taken previously in Stone's desk: indeed, it was a notebook – a worn out, used one with a tattered blue cover. Hughes handed it to Peter and the agent, always in investigating mood, noticed many things at once; the edge was dark from being held by dirty fingers, some pages were in danger of falling from the binding and the cover felt sticky, as if someone had spilled sweetened coffee on it. Hughes gave an approving nod and Peter opened the notebook to read it.

After a few seconds, Peter's face had blanched. He couldn't believe what he was reading!

It was Stone's diary.

Impossible to be mistaken: Peter had recognized at once the former agent's squiggle. But the written words were terrifying: it was sheer madness!

"_I'm going to become Burke's partner if it's the last thing I do… My place is at his side; he's the best agent of the unit and I can't waste my time teaming with the other fools. Frankly, they are all hopeless and they should be transferred to a dead-end department, like archives or procurement. Too bad there are those anti-harassment laws in the office, because I wouldn't mind taking out my gun and aim it right at Taylor's face, to teach this greenie to respect his betters…"_

"_Caffrey is a little creep. He lives the good life in a mansion filled with superb clothes while I strive in a hovel with a harpy wife and two useless brats. Caffrey has no right to be so lucky. He has stolen my place as Burke's partner and it's the last thing he'll ever steal. Bastard!"_

"_I heard Burke praising Jones' work today. That made me feels like to puke! I thought for a moment that Burke was sincere but then I remembered Jones is ex-SEAL and there is a budget meeting tomorrow; there you have it! Burke is forced to say good things about Jones because it makes him look good at budget time, but I'm sure that deep down, he despises the toy soldier as much as I do…"_

"_I can't write for long, I think Old Fossil Hughes is watching me… Then again, he is almost senile so he can't understand what is happening right under his nose…"_

"_Berrigan gets on my nerves. No matters how hard I try, she won't respect me. Disgusting rich bitch, she should earn her bread on her back like the rest of the other lesbians instead of playing F.B.I. agent! And she can't stop dandling her money in front of everyone… After I'm Burke's partner, I will make her life so hellish she'll beg to be sent back to D.C. Maybe a little round of sex in the bathrooms will make her realize who the bosses here are!"_

"_The whole Unit is buzzing about Caffrey saving Burke's life while they were both locked up in a safe with an air-sucking system. Jones can't shut up about Caffrey giving Burke the mini-breather so he'll have five more minutes of air while the thief was suffocating. Which just proves how stupid Jones is: if he hadn't interfered, Caffrey would have died in the safe and it would have saved me a lot of trouble…"_

"_Linda told me this morning to stop terrorizing the brats; I was eating breakfast. Sometimes I wish a fire would destroy the house with Linda and the kids inside, so I'd be free of them and the mortgage as well. Maybe an accident could be arranged with the boiler… Boy, would it be nice to be a childless widower!"_

"_Fowler has left the office today with the corrupted judge in tow; too bad he hadn't taken Caffrey as well! But Fowler made a mistake, whatever plan he elaborated must have been too complicated and it failed. A bullet in Caffrey's brains would be quicker and easier. Some guys at the Unit pretend Fowler tried to frame Burke with accusations of corruption, but I know it's a damn lie. Probably coming from Caffrey, that disgusting little creep…"_

"_I wanted to talk to Burke today about our future partnership but, right at the minute I came up to him, his cell phone rang: it was his wife! He answered right away and she talked her head off about meaningless things. I never had a chance to approach Burke and it's her fault. She's probably the kind of woman who hassle husbands all the time. It'll change after I'm Burke's partner: one or two good slaps in the face will teach that pest of a missus to stop annoying us at work…"_

"_Caffrey's girlfriend has been blown up in a plane explosion. Good riddance! The bastard is back in jail. Fantastic! The only annoying thing is, Burke is under investigation because of a deal Caffrey had supposedly concluded with Agent Fowler. What a joke! Fowler wouldn't have abased himself to make a deal with a low-life scum like Caffrey but the bigwigs have decided to launch an investigation to stay on the safe side. Oh well, just one or two days to wait and I'll come up to Burke with my proposition of partnership. Nobody knows who has blown up this plane and that's too bad: I would have sent the guy a Thank You card for kicking Caffrey and his girlfriend out of the picture. Too bad the pet hadn't been on the plane!"_

"_Damn it! I'm so furious I can barely see straight! Burke has gotten Caffrey out of jail and re-instated him as his partner! That can't be! Why did he do such a stupid thing? Caffrey is a good-for-nothing and I am the best, can't Burke see it? He's an intelligent man and yet he can't see what is in front of him? Caffrey must have hypnotized Burke, somehow!"_

"_Linda is on my case as soon as I step foot in our house, which is getting more and more disgusting every day; and she has the nerve to say it's spotless! I should tell her to get her eyesight checked but she'd probably ask for money and I'm not in the mood right now. I have to endure the show of Caffrey working at his desk where he should be behind bars. But at least it's funny to see the bastard so shaken up. He tries to put up his usual cocky front but at times his hands tremble; and he nearly cried like a girl at the office, too! So much for the so-called Caffrey nerve, it's another lie as usual. I'd love to have five minutes with him so I'd give him something to cry about, but with a little luck Caffrey will have a nervous breakdown and he'd be shipped off to max-security pretty soon…"_

"_It's hopeless. The pet seems to recover from the shock of losing his rest-in-pieces girlfriend, meaning he won't be sent to jail in a near future. Ok ay, it's time for action. I have waited for too long for Burke to realize Caffrey can't be his partner. I AM HIS TRUE PARTNER and I will prove it. But having Caffrey sent back to jail shouldn't be difficult; a little thievery will do the trick…"_

Peter stopped reading to stare at Hughes and Neal in bemusement. The notebook dropped from his hands to land on the oval table with a soft thud.

"Yes, that was my reaction too after I've read it," said Hughes.

"And mine," added Neal.

"What? Neal… You knew about this notebook?" asked Peter.

The young man nodded and his blue eyes asked a silent question to the Director, which said:

"Go ahead, Caffrey, tell him the rest of the story."

"Peter, one evening Director Hughes came to see me at June's mansion. It was kind of awkward at first, because I thought for a moment he was going to blame me for the Fowler's fiasco and the imperilment of your career, and this kind of situation usually ends with threats of Marshalls slapping handcuffs and all the rest of it. But I was mistaken: Hughes wanted to show me Stone's notebook. After reading it, it became obvious that it was the diary of a man who is your number one fan… and has Narcissistic personality disorder, NPD for short."

"What is that?"

"It's a personality disorder where a person is excessively preoccupied with personal adequacy, power, prestige and vanity. In the case of Stone, it was a matter of becoming a celeb figure of the F.B.I., like J. Edgar Hoover or Elliot Ness."

"Holy God..."

"Yes, and to reach this goal, Stone was determined to become your partner at all costs. He was convinced an association with you will boost his career."

"But how did this crazy idea ever came to his head?" asked Peter. "Stone is an incompetent and I'd rather quit the F.B.I. than having him in my team. I never praised his work, how could I? He has no skills whatsoever; more than once I've wondered how he has managed to pass the psychological tests at Quantico. And I haven't had a partner in years, until the day I've agreed to pull you out of jail."

"Hasn't has it been the most intelligent thing you've done in your life, Peter?" asked Neal with a playful smirk.

"No, smart-mouth, it has been when I asked Elizabeth to be my wife."

"Aw, that's too bad."

"Caffrey…" started to say Hughes in a warning tone.

"Ahem! Well, anyway, after reading this notebook, Hughes and I came to the conclusion that you were in grave danger. Stone was obsessed with you and he was ready to remove all the so-called "obstacles" standing between him and a future partnership: Jones, Diana, Hughes, El, his own family and the rest of the White Collar Unit, all the persons he despises so much."

"And you, Neal," said Peter. "Stone hates your guts and he never made a mystery of it."

"Exactly, and that's what gave me the idea of a plan to neutralize him."

"What?"

"Peter, Hughes couldn't go see the executives with Stone's diary in hand since A) he got it illegally B) this notebook was circumstantial evidence at best and C) the mere whisper of an investigation would have pushed Stone over the edge and make him start a murdering rampage either at home, at the office or even in the street. Too many people were in danger because of a maniac so I told Hughes that it would be a wise move to make Stone concentrate his hate on a single person, namely me."

Peter's brown eyes hardened like a pair of Tiger stones after hearing this. Neal felt a shiver crawl up his spine as he thought that indeed, his handler was furious hearing about the plan elaborated with Hughes. But it was too late to back down and besides, Neal Caffrey could weather any kind of storm, including the one brewing inside his friend's mind.

"Yes, I did propose to be a target because I was the obvious choice: I'm your partner, I have a good life and my help is appreciated, everything Stone detests the most. It was safer for everybody to let Stone focus his attention on me; with my hard work at the office and the skyrocketing crime-solving rate, it wouldn't be long before Stone would attack me in a fit of jealousy and it would have made the perfect opportunity to kick him out of the F.B.I. Hughes approved of this plan but there was a major snag: my tracking anklet. I'm still confined within a two-mile radius and I'm ready to bet that, apart from you, there are other persons checking on my whereabouts from time to time – like OPR guys hoping to pin something on me to alleviate the accusations against Fowler the rogue. Then, Hughes agreed to be my "supervisor" and to lock his hawk-eyes on Stone. Since we are not working in the field, it made it simpler for him to watch my back. Outside work I simply stayed at June's, her mansion is a fortress with a very good burglar-proof system."

That was too much for Peter; he stood up and walked towards the window. Judging from his angry expression, Neal, still sitting on the window's ledge, feared for a brief instant that the older man was going to strangle him on the spot but Peter simply stared at the panorama outside the window, his jaw clenched so tightly it was in danger to be fissured. Neal glanced at Hughes who gave him an encouraging nod, so the younger man carried on with his story:

"Look, Peter, I don't blame you for being angry about us keeping you in the dark but truly we didn't have any choice. Stone was stalking you and it wasn't limited to writing insanities in his notebook. No, he was also watching every one of your movements, every person you talked to, every meeting you attended out of fear someone would become another "obstacle" that could compromise your future partnership. It could have been anybody, like José the cleaning guy, someone of the Harvard Squad, or even – God forbids – El if she ever got the idea to come at the office to see you! Stone was becoming a danger and it was like dealing with a mad bull during a rodeo. What's the best way to save a fallen cowboy from being trampled under the bull's hooves? Simply by sending in the clown!"

"You are not a clown; you were more the goat tied to a tree waiting for the lion to chew you up!" barked Peter. "By golly, Neal, what possessed you to do such a thing? You are still mourning Kate, you barely sleep, you're not armed and yet you agree to go on a dangerous undercover mission behind my back? Do you know what could have happened if Stone had cornered you in a corridor or… Oh, God! The incident at the men's room was part of the plan? You could have been killed!"

"No, Peter, it wasn't part of the plan," said the young man firmly. "It happened, that's all, and I rode on the tidal wave. It's the same thing with cons, you see? You may make a plan but it's always better to leave a lot of room for improvisation. Anyway, our scheme worked: it distracted Stone's attention to focus solely on me. He poured all his hate on me, leaving only disdain for his family or the Harvard Squad. That's when he tried to frame me for the first time, by stealing valuables from Jones and Diana and stashed them in my desk's drawer."

"What? Why I've never heard of this?"

"Because Hughes was staying late at the office that night and he saw Stone dropping Jones' money and Diana's gold watch in my drawer, but here again it wouldn't have been enough to confront him. Hughes' testimony wouldn't have been enough and I'm a notorious thief, do you think the F.B.I. bigwigs will launch an investigation on an Agent based on hearsay? No, so Hughes simply put the money and the watch where they belonged and he came to see me at June's with a warning: Stone was evolving from a sulking stalker to a criminal who would stop at nothing to push me out of the picture."

"Oh, my God…"

"Yeah, and Stone was pretty pissed off the next day when he realized his "great scheme" had been foiled! That's the reason why I brought muffins the next day, to discreetly celebrate his failure. But then you scolded Stone good and hard about him dragging his feet for the Anderson case's paperwork, and a week later he decided to embarrass you in front of Director Baker by destroying the Horace Pippin file just before your big meeting."

That last piece of news made Peter sit on the window's ledge, just next to Neal.

"Oh, please… Tell me this isn't true! Stone couldn't have destroyed the Pippin file just to spite me."

"Actually, Peter, it was to teach you a "lesson" for not respecting your future partner in front of the other guys in the Unit. That night I couldn't sleep because I was thinking about Kate too much so I tried to paint, but after a while I couldn't shake the feeling something was wrong at the office. So I called Hughes and begged him to go see if the Horace Pippin file was still on your desk. It took a bit of coaxing because it was past one o'clock in the morning, but finally he went and saw the file had disappeared – the only thing remaining was the empty cardboard. It didn't take us long to understand what had happened, it couldn't be a coincidence! Since I was stuck at June's, I told Hughes over the phone where to find the electronic copy of your report on your hard drive – yes, I do know your password! Hughes printed your report, made photocopies, took some new cardboard files and brought the whole lot to my place. But the sketches, photographs, postcards were gone so I spent the night surfing on the Internet to find copies – I cracked inside a few protected sites – and then I rushed to an "Open night and day" reprography center to have them printed and ready for your meeting with Director Baker. When you picked me up that morning, I had just finished sending the new files to Hughes by private messenger."

"Oh, Neal," said Peter, laying a hand on the young man's shoulder. He was genuinely sorry for having blamed his friend about being late to go to work. No wonder Neal had looked so tired recently; on top of mourning Kate's death, his friend had being working double-time to keep him safe from Stone.

"It's okay, you couldn't have known. The meeting with Baker went smoothly and she complimented you, which was the most important thing. Stone's plan had failed again but trust me it was getting difficult to obfuscate all day along about what was really going on. Hughes and I met every evening to make the point about the situation but no one knew about it, not even June, Naomi or Mozzie. You wouldn't believe the crafty tricks we used to make Hughes enter the mansion without anybody noticing it. I'll bet you've learn a thing or two about how thieves can enter buildings without raising the alarm, haven't you, Director?"

"More than I've wanted to know," confirmed Hughes.

"But why, Neal?" asked Peter, jumping on his feet. "This whole undercover thing could have cost you dearly; you had no backup, no radio and no one apart Hughes knew what was going on. Why did you put your life in the line of fire so foolishly?"

Neal got up as well, his handsome face a mask of cold determination; he locked his sapphire-like eyes on the older man's face as he answered with an unusual steel-like quality in his voice:

"Because, Agent Burke… Special Agent Peter Burke of the White Collar Crime Unit… **You** have my back, and I have _**yours**_!"

TBC…


	13. The hawk eyed man II

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- Hi! This chapter is a bit short but it has been "the week from Hell" at the office: my boss is sick at the hospital, so three guesses who has to do all the work? ;-)

- "_Huis clos"_ means "closed-door session" in French; it is a term usually employed to design a trial where the public is not allowed to attend, but it can also describe a situation in which protagonists are trapped inside a room, like in a play or in a movie.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 13: the hawk-eyed man II<strong>

A very long silence followed Neal's statement. Peter looked completely floored, his mouth agape and his eyes suspiciously shining brighter. Hughes remained as immobile as a statue, fixing the younger man like a watchful bird of prey getting ready to swoop on a tiny mouse in a blink of an eye. But Neal stood his ground, never relenting from his friend's stupefaction or the Director's unblinking gaze. He meant what he said and he wouldn't take it back, not even for the Crown's jewels in display at the Tower of London. For the very first time in years, Neal was revealing a glimpse of his inner steel – something he had carefully kept hidden with charming smiles and a carefree attitude; nobody suspected anything until one stubborn Agent Peter Burke of the F.B.I. had a hunch about this tenacity, something that had decided him to conclude an incredible deal which had led to a rocky but successful partnership.

Peter was moved beyond words, sensing that Neal had been sincere about watching his back even if it meant sacrificing his own safety. The young man wasn't trained as an agent, he had sworn no oath, he loathed guns and yet it was obvious he wanted to be a real partner for Peter, just like Jones was for Price, Berrigan and the others. It was a huge step for Neal, who just a few months ago could only think about fleeing New York together with Kate. But at the last minute, Neal had found out he couldn't leave Peter and the hopes of an honest life behind – simply because the agent meant very much to him. Peter believed in him more than Neal believed in himself; that was something the con artist had longed for years and, even though he would never have imagined this trust would come from a law enforcement officer, he was resolute to keep this treasure at all costs.

The silence became deafening in the conference room and Neal was getting skittish; even if he knew his "Con Stone" plan had been approved by Hughes, he still yearned for Peter's approval but the older man remained silent, showing no signs of exasperation or anger – which was strange, considering Peter's notorious dislike for dissimulation. However, Neal's outside demeanor betrayed nothing of his nervousness as he carried on with his story:

"All in one, the plan worked beautifully but believe me, it was the hardest con I've ever pulled," said Neal. "It's easy to fool people by playing on their greed, their thirst for power or their vanity, but entrapping a man obsessed with another person is another matter – and what complicated things was that the situation had to dealt in the _huis clos_ of an office. Give me a real challenge anytime, like "borrowing" a painting in a national museum, no problem; however, dealing with maniacs is not my cup of tea! Still, after reading that notebook I couldn't stay like a statue and pray that Stone wouldn't destroy his house or make a scene at El in front of her customers; she had already gotten her share with Fowler accusing her of selling rotten products, thank you very much. That's where I came up with the plan of becoming Stone's main preoccupation and it didn't take him long to suspect me being the mastermind foiling his great schemes – but it never came to his mind that Hughes the "Old Fossil" was in the game too, which was my best protection. But time was running out: Stone was a walking bomb ready to explode any minute and I got the confirmation of it by a message left by June this morning."

The ex-convict took out his phone from his pants' pocket and set it on the conference table. He typed on a few buttons and activated the speaker mode before June's recorded voice rang across the room:

"_Neal, honey, this is June. Listen, I caught a prowler this morning outside the house, right at the moment when you left for work. He seemed very interested in you but not in a good way. Here's his description: grey eyes, dark hair, arrogant face and awful manners. He pretended being a friend of yours from prison but I didn't buy it for a minute. I had a good hold at his ear and I would've pried more information from him but alas, Bugsy interfered. Oh, the man was driving a dark blue Cadillac and the license plate's number was BEQ-7168, state of Pennsylvania. Please be careful, sweetie, I'm sure this man has bad intentions towards you. Call me if you need anything! Bye."_

Peter felt a cold shiver creeping up his spine; the description given by June fitted Stone to a "T" and if it was indeed the agent, he lurking around Neal's place could only mean that the young man had been in very serious danger. Stone could have planned to break into the mansion and murder Neal while he slept, or even hiring street thugs to knife him as soon as he had stepped out of the house. Peter's stomach lurched at the thought his partner had walked around with a target painted on the back of his Devore suit for weeks, and him never noticing anything. Some Head Investigator he was…

"This message, followed by the confrontation this morning at the office, has confirmed that Stone had gone to the third level," said Neal.

"What third level?" asked Peter, finally coming out of his silence.

"Deranged fans usually follow a three-level process: firstly, they try to catch the attention of the person they admire the most by sending them letters, gifts or, if they happen to live close to the said person, by being extra nice just to get a few words of thanks. Secondly, they declare war against people who are 'sworn enemies' of the person and it can be anyone: a tedious wife, an unjust boss, a colleague trying to get a promotion at the expense of the idol or a bothersome person standing on the way. That's when those fans can decide to terrorize those would-be enemies or even try to push them out of the picture to clear the path between themselves and the subject of their obsession. And finally, when they don't get any reconnaissance for their efforts, deranged fans feel betrayed and decide to murder the one they had sacrificed everything for, as punishment for such 'ingratitude'."

Peter, still seated on the window's ledge, buried his head in his hands with a heavy sigh; dear God, it was exactly what had happened earlier at the Unit. Stone had reached the third level by wrongly thinking Burke had neglected his admiration and then his attempts to remove 'Caffrey the obstacle' had failed one after another. This defeat, combined with anger at himself and contempt for the rest of the world, had left the maniac with the only option to get what he wanted the most, namely Peter's respect, with violence and a gun.

A discreet knock made the three men raise their heads towards the conference room's door.

"Enter!" called Hughes.

The door silently turned on its hinges, letting in Jones and Diana.

"What is it, Jones?" asked the Director.

"Er, sorry Sir but after Stone had been taken away, Berrigan and I had the idea of searching his car and we found this."

The young agent showed three items placed in sealed evidence plastic bags: a .38 revolver, a dirty piece of paper and a license plate. Jones placed the bags on the conference table, allowing Hughes, Peter and Neal to examine the contents.

"What's all this?" asked Hughes.

"The .38 has been found on the floor of the car, barely concealed under an old newspaper," answered a severely-frowning Diana. "This is neither Stone's service weapon nor his backup piece, and he has never placed a request whatsoever about examining a gun for an investigation so he'll have to answer about being in possession of an unregistered firearm."

"Yeah, and he'll also have to explain why he had scribed down Caffrey's address on this piece of paper," added Jones, his features chiseled in hard ebony as he showed the creased note. "And this Pennsylvania license plate doesn't belong to his car, either: it has been registered in New York State."

"What kind of car does Stone drive?" asked Peter.

"A Cadillac, dark blue in color", said Diana.

Hughes, Peter and Neal exchanged a glance: those items found in Stone's car, which matched June's description, didn't bode well for the disgraced F.B.I. agent. Neal's address, a .38 and a license plate coming out of nowhere, even the baggy clothing Stone had been wearing at the office, all this smacked of an amateur hit which had gone south thanks to the forceful intervention of the Arbogast widow. Neal made a mental note to take June out for dinner in the finest restaurant within his radius and dance all night along, as a thank you gift. It was the least he could do after she had single-handedly stopped a murder attempt on his person!

Hughes slowly got up from his chair and gestured to Jones and Diana to pick up the objects wrapped in plastic bags.

"Have you gathered the depositions of the people at the Unit?" asked the Director.

"We did, Sir and they are all adamant about what had happened: Agent Stone barged in the Pit and attacked Caffrey; Agent Taylor interfered but Stone pulled a gun at the kid's face. Caffrey managed to re-direct Stone's anger at him to get Taylor out of harm's way. Agent Burke tried to calm down Stone but the man lost it and pointed his weapon at him with the evident intention to shoot. That's when Caffrey knocked Stone out with a little statue that was on his desk, allowing us to neutralize the suspect," said Jones.

"Jones' testimony and mine will also corroborate those facts, Sir," added Diana. "We will insist on the fact that Caffrey's quick thinking has saved Taylor, Burke and the people of the Unit from being shot by Agent Stone."

Hughes had a small smile: obviously, the members of the White Collar Crime Unit didn't want their favorite C.I. to get in trouble for hitting a federal agent in a self-defense move. Everybody had still in mind Fowler's little schemes to put Caffrey back in jail and how it had almost worked but this time, they were ready to step up and speak on the young man's behalf.

"You don't need to worry, Berrigan," said Hughes. "Between your testimonies, Burke's and mine, there is no chance that Caffrey will see the inside of a prison cell anytime soon."

"Nice to know I won't be in trouble for Stone's _tête-à-tête_ with Socrates," grumbled Neal under his breath.

"Begging your pardon, Sir, but… _your_ testimony?" asked Jones. "You weren't even at the Pit when Stone tried to murder Caffrey."

"Burke will tell you the whole story. Right now, I want you and Berrigan to wrap up things at the Unit and make sure all statements are done and signed before every agent leaves for home. Considering the recent commotion, I'm giving the whole team the rest of the day off. Burke, I'll make a full report to the top executives as soon as the last statement is taken. Caffrey, you've outdone yourself with this case; rest assured I will mention it to the people in charge."

"Thanks, Sir."

Jones and Diana's eyes widened as they heard Hughes praising Caffrey about a case they weren't aware of, but the Director ushered them out the conference room and they knew better than discuss direct orders from the hawk-eyed man. The agents grabbed the evidences and left without another word, leaving Peter and Neal alone.

* * *

><p>Peter raised his eyes towards his young friend: "You have done a very brave thing, Neal."<p>

"Thank you."

"But I still don't like the fact you didn't told me anything."

Neal sighed; Peter Burke was the most stubborn person the world had ever seen! He got up on his feet and started to pace across the conference room, unconsciously imitating his partner when he was debriefing the team about a new case.

"I know and I'm sorry about that, but I can't be sorry about wanting to protect you. And, for your information, my little stunt has nothing to do with the high possibility of being sent back to jail if anything should happen to you – frankly, and at the risk of shocking you, I don't give a damn about prison! I broke out of max-security once so there's a good chance I will do it again, no matter how long it will take. But that's not the point; when Hughes showed up at my place and told me about Stone being obsessed with you, the only thing I could think of is that I didn't want to lose you, just like I lost… Kate."

The mere mention of the woman's name made Peter's heart twist painfully inside his chest.

"Neal…"

"You may think I have acted like a harebrained idiot but I simply couldn't bear the idea of you being in Stone's line of fire. I had to do something and I refused to let grief slow me down. It may sound paradoxical but this whole business with Stone stimulated me while I was fighting down the pain of Kate's death at the same time. Sure, I lost hours of sleep and the stress at work was unbearable at times but I never regretted my decision. You… You have been my guardian angel from day one, Peter and even though I don't always show it, I truly appreciate everything you've done for me. I know I'm a handful and lesser agents would have thrown the towel weeks ago but you never relented, simply because you believe in me."

"Of course, Neal! You have such potential you could outsmart anyone in the F.B.I.!"

"Not everyone, since I've never managed to fool you," said Neal before adding: "It hasn't been easy to keep a discreet eye on Stone while you were watching me round the clock. You believed my tiredness was caused by mourning and you were partially right, but Hughes and I both knew you wouldn't remain mislead for long and Stone was unpredictable. That's why I had to act fast and show a nice façade to the world, bottling up my grief until Stone would be arrested. Your life was hanging in the balance, Peter; do you have any idea what it meant for me?"

Peter got up as well, worried by the increasing tremor in Neal's voice. He rested his hand on the young man's arm, stopping his nervous pacing.

"Neal, I…"

"Please don't be angry, Peter. You hate being left out in the cold and you think I lie for a living, but this time I truly wasn't enjoying myself. I didn't betray your trust; I simply couldn't tell you what was going on. Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place! But reading that dreaded notebook scared the Hell out of me; the maniac wasn't only targeting you, but also your loved ones and… well, they happen to be people I care about, too."

Neal looked away, suddenly looking embarrassed but he didn't free his arm from Peter's hold.

"Yes, I do care about you and also for El, Jones, Diana and the others. I know I'm not allowed to do so, but I can't help feeling what I'm feeling and I've never been one to follow the rules, anyway. Do you remember that day at the airport, when I was getting ready to leave with Kate?"

"God, Neal, I'll never forget this day as long as I live," said Peter sincerely.

"You tried to talk me out of it, to convince me to stay. You said I was making a difference, doing important work and I was completely torn between you and Kate. Finally, I gave you back my credentials in the hopes you would stop insisting and I walked towards the plane but…"

"I remember, Neal. You stopped and turned because you had taken your decision; you were coming back to me."

"I realized I had been fooling myself the whole time, because deep down I didn't want to leave you. That's why I said good-bye to everyone but you; it wasn't out of impoliteness, it was because you were the only one who could make me change my mind and the events proved me right. Call me a coward if you want…"

"Fat chance!"

"After Kate's death, I swore to myself I wouldn't lose another person dear to me. An impossible vow, I know, but it has been the only thing that had helped me to keep my sanity – this and you. After the stay in jail, I was resolute to use every means in my power to keep you safe. And protecting you includes protecting your wife and your team members as you would be devastated if anything should happen to them. I haven't said this out loud because you'd thought it was crazy talk; in fact I'm having a hard time believing I'm telling you this right now. It's probably due to the shock of having had a gun recently shoved under my chin …"

Neal shook his head, visibly confused by his declaration. He had the reputation to never confess to anything – his past cons, the names of his former accomplices, his childhood – and yet he had openly talked about his feelings towards the people he worked with and, most importantly, the man who had pulled him out of prison to give him a second chance in life.

"Why do you think you are not allowed to care for us?" asked Peter softly.

"Come on, Peter, you lot are the white knights sworn-in agents, law enforcement officers, the armed wing of the system and all that jazz. I'm a criminal, a menace to society who is supposed to come to a bad end! In a normal world, I should resent you and the Harvard Squad members."

"But you don't."

"No, far from it."

"Newsflash for you, buddy: the Harvard Squad guys like you too."

"It's a miracle, considering the trouble I've made since I started working here!"

"Have you forgotten all the good things you've done? We solved cases, saved innocents from being spoiled and put culprits behind bars. Do you honestly think the guys at the Unit consider you only as a tool, like Agent Rice?"

Peter put both hands on Neal's shoulders, making the young man look right at the ruggedly-handsome face of the agent.

"Neal, friendship isn't a one-way street. People here care for you as much as you do for them. And no one, not even the top executives, can forbid us from becoming friends and forming a great team. You were right earlier when you said I had your back and you had mine; I haven't forgotten the mysterious erasing of Fowler's video tape. There is no-one but you I trust more out on the field but little did I know that I can also rely on you in the office. Nobody will forget you have saved us all today. I have a life debt towards you, just like Jonny Taylor and the rest of the Unit."

"Peter, you don't own me anything…" started to say Neal, but the older man interrupted him.

"Yes, I do. Stone would have shot me; I saw it in his eyes. He was completely lost in his fantasy world and when his castle in the air fell, he had nothing to live for except avenging himself on the people he thought had 'wronged' him. It has been a very close call, Neal. El would be a widow by now, if it hadn't been for you."

"I just wanted…"

The rest of the sentence was lost after Peter pulled Neal into a hug. The young man sighed and rested his chin on the agent's broad shoulder, the day's events finally taking its toll on him. The agent intertwined his fingers in the dark wavy hair in a soothing gesture and Neal tightened his embrace in response, basking in the warmth, the strength, the caring exuding from Peter; the man had been the first steadfast presence he ever had and, God bless his heart, the only person who had ever offered him a future.

"Thank you Neal, for my life," whispered Peter.

"Thank you Peter… for my _**soul**_," answered Neal.

TBC…


	14. The bluegreen eyed goddess

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- The last chapter! I'd like to thank my wonderful readers and reviewers for their appreciation and their support.

- To LvSammy: thank you for your review. I'm very glad I have made you go 'Awwww'! ;-)

- Details about the Greek goddess Athena come from Wikipedia.

- To all American fans of WC: the show comes back on January 17th, you bunch of lucky guys. Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 14: The blue-green eyed goddess<strong>

The two men remained embraced for a long time, not caring about the possibility of somebody seeing them through the glass door of the conference room. Frankly, after the day's close call, they wouldn't have given a damn about anything. Peter, still hugging Neal close, could feel faint tremors under his hands and he understood his friend was nearing exhaustion. The Stone Case (as Peter had started to name it) had brought lots of stress on the ex-convict with a combination of fear, worry and constant closeness to danger so it was amazing he hadn't crashed yet. Peter felt a surge of pride at the thought: Neal was more resilient than the vast majority of F.B.I. agents he knew and his intelligence would put many persons to shame. Had he had followed training at Quantico, Neal would have graduated at the top of his class and the agencies directors would have torn each other to pieces like a bunch of wildcats to have him on their teams. It's too bad the sirens' call of cons had been too powerful to resist, depriving Neal of four years of freedom… But Peter Burke had sworn he would grant the young man a chance for an honest life and he would be good to this promise. His partner was so smart and gifted it would be criminal to put him back in jail again.

Neal burrowed his face deeper in Peter's strong shoulder, making the older man stroke gently the dark curls covering the nape of the young man's neck in a soothing gesture. Neal had a small smile and then he closed his eyes to regain a bit of composure but the day's events kept on running through his mind like a runaway train: June's warning, Stone attacking him in the bullpen, Taylor trying to interfere, Stone pulling a gun at the new kid, and then at Neal before threatening Peter; his own feelings of rage and anger after realizing Stone wanted to hurt **his** Peter; and then Socrates jumping right in his hand and doing a marvelous job in knocking out the maniac.

As on cue, a quote by the Greek philosopher sprung into Neal's mind: _"__Be slow to fall into friendship; but when thou art in, continue firm and constant"_; good ol' Socrates, he was right as rain even centuries after his death. Painful past circumstances had forced Neal to be very cautious about friendships, even with Mozzie and Kate. He adored Mozzie but he also knew the little man wouldn't compromise his safety for anything in the world, not even to save Neal from great trouble. And Kate… Gosh, the woman had been the great love of his life, the one he had opened his heart to and yet she had dumped him like last week's trash. Neal had to admit – it hurt to do so – but Kate had ambitioned to make a con's career of her own without Neal's tutelage. She had prided herself good enough to play in the big league only to be fooled by Keller, entrapped by Fowler and meet a terrible end. Only Agent Burke had proved to be a true friend, the only one Neal had come to trust – no matter how aberrant it would appear to an outside eye. Real friendship was uncharted territory for the young man and at times, it was a little bit frightening but also most welcome, especially after dealing with a very dangerous situation.

After a long moment, Neal moved his head to whisper in the older man's ear:

"Peter?"

"Mmh?"

"What's going to happen?"

"What do you mean? Oh, you are worried about you defending yourself against Stone, but you shouldn't. Hughes said he would vouch for you, remember?" asked the agent, tightening ever so slightly his hold as if he wanted to protect his partner from potential enemies.

"I'm not worried about me, I'm just… wondering what's going to happen to Stone. How does the Bureau deal with this kind of situation?"

Peter let out a deep sigh, and then he broke the embrace to look at Neal in the eyes.

"I'm not going to lie to you, buddy. Cases like this are very rare but alas, it had happened in the past: agents cracking up from work pressure, PTSD, family matters… A few committed suicide or resigned but the rest have been sent to follow long-term medical treatments."

"Do you mean they have been institutionalized?"

"Some of them, yes. And that's what is going to happen with Stone: the man is a danger to him and others, there's no way we can let him go home with the hopes he'll take his pills like a good little patient. No, he has to remain under constant medical supervision and probably for the rest of his life."

"Do you think there will be a trial of some sort?"

"No, the top executives won't allow the scandal to come out of this building. They'd rather deal with the matter discreetly…"

"Mozzie would rather say they want to sweep it under the carpet."

"Probably and for once, I'd agree with him," said Peter with a half-smile. "I don't like this hush-hush situation too but a trial would bring us nothing but bad publicity. We know the perpetrator; there is an abundance of evidence and about thirty witnesses of Stone's aggression, plus Hughes' testimony about sending you undercover so it's an open and shut case. Stone was a loner and there's no chance he had any accomplices in his scheme to kick you out of the F.B.I."

"Accomplices, no… But I'm sure some colleagues would have appreciated his efforts," said Neal, his sapphire eyes getting darker at the recollection of Agent Ruiz's notorious contempt towards him and Agent Rice selling him to truants without a second thought.

"Neal…"

"I don't care about what people think of me outside the White Collar Unit, Peter. After I've accepted Hughes' mission, the only worrying matter was how your people considered me: a pet convict, a troublemaking C.I. or a friend? Another hostile in a suit would have made my undercover situation unbearable. Remember that day in your office, when I asked you if I were tolerated within the Unit? That wasn't part of the cover. I had to know if I could count on your Harvard Squad to watch my back – and my front – in case of confrontations with Stone while you'd be stuck in a meeting somewhere. Well, at least, this mission has confirmed me that I can rely on Jones, Diana, Price and the others as much as I can you. Diana told Stone off after he tried to dump his files on my desk; Price told you about the maniac ambushing me in the men's room; Jones was ready to shoot Stone in the Pit… Heck, even Taylor stepped up to protect me and the poor kid got the fright of his life."

"And what does that tell you, Neal?" asked Peter, his brown eyes shining in pride at the thought his team members would defend their C.I. unconditionally. They were people gifted with both brains and heart intelligence.

"It tells me that I'm actually tolerated within the Unit, and maybe even a little more… And it's not just because of I am good with clerical work, huh, Peter?" added Neal with a little uncertainty in his voice.

The agent let out another sigh but this time, it sounded like the usual _'Neal-you-are-brilliant-but-sometimes-you-get-on-my-nerves'_ one that Burke let out about four times per day at the office.

"Don't tell me you have believed the line I've fed to Stone, earlier?"

"I know you were cajoling Stone to get his gun from out of my throat, Peter! It's just that, for a second, it sounded real…"

"I'll take it as a compliment for my acting skills and here's another newsflash for you, kid: I loathe lies but I don't mind using them when the situation calls for it, like during a sting or trying to talk to a madman about letting go of his gun. However I don't like lying to my wife, co-workers or partner in real life because it's a breach of trust and, as El could confirm it to you, trust doesn't come easy to me."

"Then why did you agree to our deal?" asked the young man. "I must be the least person you can qualify as 'trustworthy' on this little blue planet…"

"Because I am convinced you can be great, Neal. Once you'd be cured of your dangerous love for glittering things that belong to other persons, you'll realize that the said little blue planet won't stop turning if you don't become the unsurpassed, world's most famous con artist of all times. That's a title for losers, which you're not, and it won't bring you happiness in life; your competitors may think you have gone traitor but you have done the right choice while they are all bound to meet a dark end. The same thing goes for your friends: Alex relies on her looks to get what she wants but she will find herself in a situation where being sexy won't be enough to help her. Mozzie is excessively prudent and that explains why he has managed to survive in the criminal world for all these years, but for how long will his luck hold? And Kate… I don't want to speak badly of the dead but she was a little fish with delusions of grandeur. She made a fatal mistake on the day she dumped you."

"I know," said Neal, bowing his head so the agent wouldn't see his eyes brimmed with tears, but Peter wasn't fooled. He brushed the young man's cheek and added in a softer tone:

"I'm not saying this to upset you, kid. I'm just stating a fact to make you understand why I am so keen in keeping you on the straight and narrow. And after what happened today, I am certain concluding our deal was the right thing to do."

"Thanks," said Neal, his features brightening with one of his trademark smiles, his first genuine one since the day had begun. The smile erased the tears and this sight warmed Peter's heart: his friend was indeed getting better.

"You're welcome. Now, how about getting out of here, Sundance? Hughes gave us the rest of the day off and I can't wait to be home with El."

"Likewise, Butch, I'd appreciate a bit of peace at June's."

The two men left the conference room and Peter stopped at his office to grab his coat and briefcase. Neal walked down the flight of stairs and noticed that the Pit was deserted. Obviously, the rest of the gang had been informed by Hughes to go home early and no one had been keen on staying in a place haunted by the recent presence of a maniac armed with a gun. The office wouldn't be proceed like a usual crime scene; as Peter had stated earlier, the top executives would want to hush up the scandal and police reports would bring too many questions. The Pit had been cleaned up, desks and chairs were back to their initial places and the only visible trace of Stone's violence was the remains of the small statue of Socrates, dumped unceremoniously in a trash can.

Neal gave a silent apology to the Greek philosopher and then he picked up his raincoat and hat, relieved to see this infernal day coming to an end. After a minute, Peter walked down the stairs as well and the two men found themselves waiting for the elevator. Suddenly, Neal asked: "Did I tell you I've started painting again?"

"No, you didn't," answered Peter, pleasantly surprised by this revelation.

"It happened during the case – of all moments! But it felt good to pick up a piece of charcoal and started drawing again. It's like finding something I've lost and thought never to see again. After Kate died I tried to paint but it was no use, I couldn't get her out of my mind. And then, right in the middle of a dangerous case, I feel the need to compose a painting instead of trying to salvage the little hours of sleep I had left. Crazy, huh?"

"It's not crazy, kid; it's the proof that you are starting to heal from your loss. Every person has his or her own way to deal with pain: yours is to paint and that's not surprising, you're an artist to the core. There are many examples of artists who have tried to overcome grief through their art: Victor Hugo wrote hundreds of poems about his eldest daughter Léopoldine after she died in a boat accident; Rudyard Kipling wrote one of his most famous poems after his son Jack was killed in action during WWI…"

"But does that mean I will forget Kate? At times, I feel guilty about playing with color tubes instead of mourning her…"

The elevator arrived with its usual 'ding' and Peter ushered Neal inside the cabin.

"Neal, you will never forget Kate. You're too generous and good-hearted to dismiss her memory like an unwanted burden. She's an integral part of you now and the souvenir of your love will make you grow stronger, instead of crippling you."

"Yeah, yeah. Life goes on, eh?" said Neal with a half-hearted attempt of cynicism.

Peter pressed the 'Ground Floor' button before answering: "No, buddy. _Life is beginning_".

* * *

><p>The next day, Peter picked up Neal at June's mansion. The young man had fallen asleep as soon as his head had touched the pillow of his comfy bed, lost in Dreamland for twelve hours straight. He would have stayed there for an extra two hours if it hadn't been for Naomi knocking loudly at his door, bringing him breakfast on a tray. June had joined him on the terrace and Neal had told her all about Stone, his pathological obsession and his various attempts to send him back to jail. Between two mouthfuls (the first hearty meal he had eaten since Kate's death), Neal had confirmed June the "prowler" she had spotted near the mansion had indeed been Stone with deadly intentions, and her fast action had foiled the rogue agent's assassination attempt. June had grumbled softly under her breath, wishing she had ripped Stone's ear off his head instead of clipping it and about how <em>"it would have served him just right"<em>.

Neal had thanked June for her intervention and he had invited her for dinner and a dance on Saturday night. June had chuckled in contentment since the restaurant was frequented by Mrs. Baxter: that jealous gossipmonger would be green of envy to watch June Arbogast dancing with such a beautiful, talented partner!

A quick shower, shave and change of clothes, and Neal had rushed downstairs to find Peter waiting for him in his Taurus. En route, the young man had asked if they could stop at his bakery to pick up two boxes of muffins.

"Again? You're going to fatten us up, Neal."

"Yes, well, it's part of my master plan to prevent your team mates from running after me," said the ex-convict with a mischievous smile. "I stuff them with muffins for months, the guys get overweight and they won't be able to run fast enough to catch me!"

"Hey, what about me?" protested Peter good-naturally. "I won't fall in your trap after what you've said so how are you going to stop me from running after you?"

"Simple: I drive you crazy, you get locked up in the loony bin and the coast is clear."

"Dream on!" grumbled the agent, making Neal chuckle lightly in the background.

Fifteen minutes later, Peter and Neal were in the F.B.I.'s building elevator, the former holding his briefcase with both hands and watching the latter carrying two big boxes with the familiar caption of _'The greatest cakes of NYC'_. Judging from the delicious smells emanating from Neal's burden, it wouldn't take long before the Harvard Squad would rally round the kitchen's table, coffee mugs in hand and paper plates on the ready. Maybe Neal's crazy plan would come to fruition, after all…

"Peter?"

"Yes?" answered the agent, snapping out of his reverie.

"I forgot to ask you yesterday, but… What's going to happen to Stone's family? The guy was a nutcase, that's certain, but his wife and kids were as much in danger as we were. How are they going to cope now that Stone is out of the picture? They will be deprived of his salary, his medical insurances, his pension… Mrs. Stone and her boys are also victims of his madness; it wouldn't be fair they should be punished for his actions."

"Don't worry about them; I've talked to Hughes on the phone last night. Mrs. Stone told him she was filing up for divorce; apparently, Stone was a domestic tyrant and she got sick and tired of hearing him yell after their sons for the littlest things. Now that her husband is in psych ward, she won't have any trouble regaining her freedom and start anew. Hughes assured me she will be granted a comfortable sum of money, enough for her to move out of the city and raise her kids upstate New York, in the town where her mother lives."

"I guess she'd rather not stay at their townhouse; it must be filled with unpleasant memories of her husband…"

"Yes, and the selling of the house will also help to get a good start in their new life. I've met Mrs. Stone once, at last year's Bureau commendation dinner. A decent sort of a woman and I remember wondering what was she doing with such a jerk."

"Peter, you have to realize that not everyone is as blessed as you are in choosing of spouses," said Neal, winking at the older man. "By the way, does Elizabeth have a sister?"

The elevator stopped at the nineteenth floor, avoiding Peter to grumble at his cocky partner. But a surprise greeted the two men after they had stepped out of the cabin and pushed open the glass doors of the White Collar Crime Unit: the whole Harvard Squad was waiting for them, clapping their hands and cheering loudly. A startled Neal instinctively took a step backwards but the discreet presence of Peter's hand on the small of his back reassured him that he had nothing to fear. The ex-convict stared at the men and women shouting _"Here comes the man" _and_ "Bravo, Neal" _for an instant, as if he didn't know what they were talking about and then a brilliant smile graced his handsome face.

"Well done, Caffrey!" said Harris, the tank-sized agent.

"Yeah, great job my man," said Jones. "You pulled our hides from out of the fire, for sure!"

"I can't take all the credit, guys," answered Neal, blushing a little after Diana had kissed him on the cheek. "You all kept your cool and…"

"What's going on here?" asked a loud voice, and all heads turned to see Reese Hughes leaning on the mezzanine's railing in his usual bird of prey posture, not to forget the frown on his face.

"Er… We're just welcoming Caffrey back, Sir!" said Diana.

"I can see that, Berrigan, but how about getting back to work? Those cases are not going to be solved by themselves!"

"Aw, you can't possibly ask those good people to work without having a taste of these delicious De Luxe muffins provided by _'The greatest cakes in this beautiful city of New York'_ and compliments of yours truly, Sir. It would be inhuman!" said Neal, presenting the two big boxes he had been carrying.

Hughes' blue eyes widened at the mention of pastries.

"De Luxe muffins?" repeated the Director of the White Collar Unit.

"Why, yes! There is a variety of Hearts-of-Chocolate, Strawberry Supremes, Cream of Oranges, Grand Marnier Specials, Desert Dates…"

"All right, Caffrey…" said Hughes, his lower jaw moving ever so slightly to dissimulate his growing hunger.

"And we have also Dreams of Blueberry, Shards of Caramel, Extreme Almonds…"

"Caffrey! You get those muffins on the kitchen table right now, and that's an order!" roared the Director while running down the stairs, unable to wait for having a go at the muffins. The members of the Unit had a hard time not to laugh out loud at their superior's sweet tooth but they nonetheless escorted Neal to the kitchen's corner. The boxes were opened, revealing indeed mouth-watering pasties and the federal agents didn't waste time in pouring coffee in mugs and making their choice through Neal's latest temptations. Peter took a Strawberry Supreme and walked to his office with Hughes in tow, carrying a Grand Marnier Special and a Banana Madness on a paper plate (plus a Cream of Oranges for Barbara). Then, someone tapped Neal lightly on the shoulder; the young man turned about and saw it was Jonathon Taylor, looking shyly at him while carrying a small white box between his hands.

"Hi, Jon," said Neal with a kind smile.

"Hi, Caffrey. I-I just wanted… Er… Well, I'd like you to have this," said the youngster, presenting the box.

Neal stood dumfounded for an instant and then he realized the other agents had stopped raiding the muffin boxes to look at him.

"For me? Jon, I didn't get you anything."

"Y-You don't have to. It's a thank-you present for saving my life yesterday."

"Taylor, you don't have to…"

"I insist, Caffrey. It's not much, considering the debt I owe you, but I t-think you'll like it… Well, I hope so, anyway."

Neal accepted the box and, knowing all the other agents' eyes were focused on him, he took his time in opening it to make the suspense last longer. But his hands shook a little after he took out the present hidden under the light grey silk paper: it was a small statue carved in the most exquisite classical art, the bust of a woman wearing an elaborated helmet and Neal identified her in a snap.

"Oh my gosh! It's Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, courage, inspiration, civilization, law and justice, just warfare, mathematics, strength, strategy, weaving, arts and crafts!" exclaimed Neal.

"What, she supervised all this? Quite a busy woman!" said Jones.

"Oh yes, she was the incarnation of the disciplined, strategic side of war while her half-brother Ares embodied violence and bloodshed. That's why she's often represented with the image of Nike, _'Victory'_ in Greek. In Homer's 'Iliad' and 'Odyssey', she is constantly referred as _'the blue-green eyed goddess'_. She would make a great patron for the F.B.I.! Thank you, Jon, I really appreciate this."

"I thought you'd like it and… I wanted you to have another statue to decorate your desk, since you smashed the former one on Stone's face to save us all."

Neal shook Taylor's hand, earning another round of applause and cheering from the agents, and then he looked up and noticed Peter watching him from the mezzanine, a muffin in hand and his favorite mug in another.

Neal took the statue and raised his arm for his friend to have a better look at it and then, he saw something that made his heart melt inside his chest.

Peter had his _'Proud Papa'_ grin on his face.

THE END!


End file.
